* * *
The next morning, Griffin called in sick at work. He was over-tired from not having been able to sleep all night. He had sat up with a kitchen knife in his hand, watching the door and the walls as if some spectre or horde of spectres might step suddenly through them.
But when it came, the phantom knocked politely at his door. It was a faint, meek knock that he wasn’t sure he’d heard at first. Hesitantly but inevitably he went to the door. Cracked it, knife in hand. But then he opened it completely.
For a moment, with the door cracked, he had thought he saw Idelia standing outside, nearly lost in shadow. Her eyes wide and pleading, sad and afraid. A rush of concern or guilt made him open the door all the way. But when he did so, he found that she wasn’t there. There was only a swirling pale mist in the general outline of a body, he felt, but which dissipated in moments so that he was left to wonder if it had even been there at all.
Lost Alleys
There are places in cities only the drunk, drugged or insane can find. Even if you have been there before you will not find them again if sober—assuming you are one who occasionally regains sobriety. The angles and planes, the lay-out of buildings, conspire to direct you elsewhere, to more prosaic destinations. It may be this design is intentional. Streets point you past these alleys, and more conventional alleys bend eye and foot past the narrow sub-alleys. Magician’s misdirection and the psychology of art—but also our fear and inhibition of straying from the path—keep these places hidden.
I have found such secret or forgotten corners in several cities; I can usually remember what I saw at these places, but not always which city I found them in. I can’t always remember straight off in the morning which city I’m currently in. I suppose my proclivity for finding these shadowy caves in the mountain range of a city has to do with the fact that I am usually either drunk or drugged, and perhaps always insane.
Somehow tonight I had found my way back to a courtyard I had visited before in my somnambulistic wanderings. You never actually forget anything; your mind simply blots out what is unnecessary, or unwanted. But part of me must have wanted to return to see another of the battles in this tiny arena.
The walls were of brick, and stretched high, windowless. Perhaps it had been a great chimney; there was a black iron door, low to the ground. They kept some of the contestants in there. That other night, I had watched an oriental dwarf battle a thylacine, one of those supposedly extinct Tasmanian tiger-wolves. Crates and cinder-blocks piled shoulder-high enclosed the fighting ring. When I arrived this night, several dozen dark forms ringed the ring. Only two chickens wearing spurs presently went at it.
I can’t stand cruelty to animals; I had been glad when the thylacine won. I stood back smoking a cigarette until more willing opponents were brought out. These two had made a decision to enter the ring. Not necessarily a rational decision, but they weren’t innocent victims. Well, victims yes, of many unknown tortures from without and within, but too far gone to merit much concern from me. I didn’t ask for their concern, either.
They were two naked men. One was tall and skeletal, the other short and even thinner. The tall one wore brass knuckles with spikes on one hand, in the other gripped a baling hook. His opponent held a railroad spike and a broken bottle with a much-taped neck for a handle. The short one was black, and had blacker keloids of scar tissue, primarily on his face, but I didn’t know if they were decorative or the wounds of past exhibitions.
I insinuated myself close to the ring’s barrier. Someone squeezed my ass but when I didn’t look they stopped, and anyway the battle had begun.
The gladiators sprang away from each other, the tall one swinging his brass-knuckled fist up into his own face, the short warrior gouging his bottle into his own inner thigh while pounding the dull chisel-point of his spike into his sternum. I leaned onto the wall; I’d never seen this before.
No one cheered them on. These matches were always nearly silent. Even the dying didn’t scream. A man in a three-piece suit on my right clutched foreign-looking money in his fist, whispering encouragement to one of them under his breath.
The tall one had hooked himself in the leg and tore upward with terrible jerks. His blood was very distinct, if black, on his cadaverous skin. But now the black man charged him, linked arms with the man and wrestled him to the ground, the tall man’s ripped leg too agonized or damaged to resist this. The black man got his arms around both of the other’s and forced his face into the floor. Holding the tall man’s arms inside his elbows left the black man’s hands free to jab his bottle under his jaw and swing his forehead down onto the spike he clenched, hammering deep gashes into his own dark skin.
I understood now. The combatants were to combat themselves; one had to inflict more damage upon himself than the other could do to his body, while preventing the other—without harming him—from mutilating himself. The black man had taken charge quickly, perhaps a running champion. But now the tall one twisted half free, and he had extricated the baling hook from his leg. He swung it up into his throat, and wrenched his arm out to one side with great force for so emaciated a creature. I heard a hiss of approval from the spectators, and a hiss of blood.
The black man bore all his slight weight down onto the other’s arm (he obviously wasn’t allowed to let go of either weapon to use his hands) but the wound was already too wide. The tall man quickly became mostly as dark as the black man, in the dim light. I felt a damp mist on my hand. The tall man convulsed under the smaller. Ah, now I knew. The black man wasn’t the running champion, but the running loser, and the fight with one’s self had been to the death.
There were more contests. Two spirited adolescents one would have imagined engaged in a video game challenge instead. Two men wrestling to rape each other. A man in a wheelchair with a spear against two pit bulls which had been firmly lashed together so that they faced in opposite directions. All three lost that bout, I understand, but I had then turned away to do the drugs I had brought with me.
I awoke inside a dark place. I realized it was the place behind that black iron door. Panic came over me. They were going to use me in the next games! But I could vaguely recall crawling into that space, and falling asleep there. When I pushed at the door it opened on creaking rusty hinges.
Square of light at the top of the chimney, and though the shaft was blue with shadowed gloom, I was startled at the relative brightness of day. I was afraid to emerge from my safe tomb, but did. The arena was empty but for an obese man with a shaven head inside the ring, spray-painting over the dried blood. He just glanced at me. I wandered around the outside of the ring, between it and the walls of the chimney, as though circling lost in a spiral maze, smoking a broken cigarette I had found.
The obese man gave me some drugs after I blew him. I sat against the brick wall, pulled my knees up close, waiting for night, saving the drugs in my pocket until much later. I would take them before the fights, however; I did not want to see the fights without the drugs.
I couldn’t leave, you understand, until that night. It was daylight. I was sober. I didn’t know the way.
The Red Spectacles
“The dead woman lay in her first night’s grave,
And twilight fell from the clouds’ concave,
And those she had asked to forgive forgave.”
—Thomas Hardy
“This is Father Venn,” said Father Clare, clearing his voice thereafter as if to expunge the remnants of the name from his throat. Or so thought Father Venn, listening to him.
“Pleased to meet you, Father,” smiled Lucetta Fawley, the hostess of the gathering. “Are you new to our church?”
“I am visiting, dear lady,” Venn smiled in return. He took the woman’s delicate hand briefly. “Father Clare was good enough to invite me to join him today as his guest. But of course, when he told me about your efforts to raise funds for this cause, I was most enthusiastic to attend.”
“Well I am delighted that you could join us, Fathe
r. Perhaps you will be able to return when Father Clare gives the cemetery its blessing.”
“Perhaps I will return, then.” Venn pivoted, hands clasped behind his back, to nod amicably at the older priest…who did not meet his eyes.
“We will be marking each grave with a humble stone bearing the name of the deceased, and the dates of their birth and death,” Mrs. Fawley explained. “Are you familiar with the cemetery? It’s a potter’s field; very sad. All indigents, unbaptized infants, patients from the sanitarium. Forgotten people. Even prisoners who were executed will receive the same benevolence.”
“You are a good soul, Mrs. Fawley. There are too many potter’s fields in this world, and each should have one patron saint such as yourself.”
Lucetta Fawley blushed. “Thank you, Father.”
Venn knew that the woman blushed not only because the compliment came from a man of God, but because the man, however celibate, was a handsome one. He found women were attracted to him in a nervous way that struck him as either charming or pathetic, depending on his mood. He was young, slender, with hair dark as his garb and skin white as his collar. It no doubt did not disturb the good woman that on this summer-gilt afternoon he wore his odd spectacles with their wire frames and their circular lenses made of a deep red glass.
Another arriving guest required that the hostess divert her attentions from the priests, and Father Venn told his companion, “You see, Michael? You needn’t have worried. Mrs. Fawley did not resent that I accompanied you at all.”
Clare would still not meet the other’s eyes. “It was wrong of you to force yourself upon her. And me…”
“I have my work.”
“But you won’t tell me what this work is, will you?”
“It’s my work, Michael. It needn’t concern you.”
“And from where do you receive your orders, Venn? God? Or a higher authority, in your mind—yourself?”
Venn now stepped into the older priest’s view. In silhouette, with the lowering sun making a corona around his head, his eyes could not be read behind their dark glasses, which looked now like skull sockets in his white face. “That is a cruel joke, Michael, and in poor taste.”
Clare did not continue. He had heard odd things about his fellow priest. Some of them unnerving. He moved past the younger man toward the house. “I’m going to join the other guests, now,” he muttered.
“Enjoy yourself,” Venn told him, watching him go. He then turned toward the knots of people laughing and conversing about the garden and grounds, and drifted toward them like a cloud’s shadow across the green lawns.
* * *
The woman Lucetta brought from the house to meet Father Venn was remarkable in two ways. For one, she was beautiful. Though small in stature, she was shapely, and her dress of Jersey cloth clung tightly to her waist and arms. As was the popular style in this year of 1883, the back fullness of the dress was lower than previously fashionable, but still given bulk by cascades of ruffles. Mrs. Fawley’s dress, more formal, swept a train of white ruffles behind her across the grass. The other woman’s dress was largely black.
Her hair, a thick bundle above her head, was as dark as his own, her flesh as pale. Her eyes were as large in her face as those of a child; a dark-eyed, solemn child. Her mouth was small, but he couldn’t decide yet if it were merely composed and dignified or a sullen pout.
The other remarkable thing about the woman approaching him was that she had wings, as sleek and tapered as those of a falcon, sprouting from her back.
“Father,” Lucetta Fawley said, “you told me that I was the patron saint of our little potter’s field, but I couldn’t take that credit alone. Please let me introduce to you my friend whose idea this benefit truly was—Emma Garland.”
Venn took the woman’s slim, cool hand. “Delighted. So you, then, are also a guardian angel, Mrs. Garland.”
A small smile flickered upon the young woman’s lips, which Venn could no better read at this close distance. “It’s the Christian thing to do, Father.”
“Oh, please excuse me a moment, would you?” Mrs. Fawley fretted, noticing the arrival of yet another new group of guests.
“Certainly,” Venn told her. “So, Mrs. Garland, what inspired you to suggest this fund- raising event to your friend Mrs. Fawley?”
“We’re both widows, Father. The mutual loss of our husbands makes us sensitive to the condition of these poor indigents.”
Her wings were lovely in themselves, and made her exquisite doll-like beauty all the more striking. She was like some dark angel made to surmount a madman’s Christmas tree. The wings were black, but shaded to silver at their tips. Or so he guessed, through his red lenses.
Without his spectacles, however, he would not be able to tell the true colors of those wings…for without them, he would not be able to see the wings at all.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss. When did your husband pass away?”
“Oh, it was long ago, I’m afraid.”
“How dreadful. And yet you’re still so young. You must not have had much time together. A tragedy.”
For several moments, the woman only gazed up at him, her eyes as impossible to read as her lips. His eyeglasses could reveal those wings sprouting through the material of her gown, but could not reveal to him the thoughts behind her features.
“I’m new to this town, Father, but I’ve not seen you before. Are you a newcomer yourself?”
“I’m from Candleton. And yourself?”
“Summerland.”
“I’m not sure I’ve been there.”
She smiled. “It’s quite far from here.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been to Candleton. That was where that cathedral burned so badly last year, wasn’t it? Oh dear—that wasn’t your church…”
“Indeed, I’m afraid it was.”
“Oh no…”
“Yes, it was quite mysterious. Some say there are dark forces at work in Candleton. Two of my fellow priests died in the fire.”
“How terrible. Yes, I’ve heard some say your town is thoroughly haunted. And wasn’t the cathedral built upon one of those ancient straight paths? I’ve seen the standing stones in your town…”
“It’s a very old town.”
“Was the cathedral ruined beyond repair?”
“I’m afraid so. But you see my spectacles?”
“Yes. They’re interesting.”
“I had them made from the stained glass of one of our cathedral windows. It was a powerful place, our church. I thought seeing through this glass would lend extra vision to my sight.” He smiled at his own joke.
“And does it?”
“Yes. It does just that. So, Mrs. Garland…when was it you last visited Candleton?”
“Oh…really I don’t recall. It was some time ago. The cathedral was standing the last I saw it.”
They had begun to stroll together, toward the garden. Venn noticed that, though the air was lush and still, a continuous soft breeze seemed to ruffle the dark feathers of the woman’s wings.
“Have you ever raised funds to have other potter’s fields blessed and their plots properly marked?”
“No. This is the first time.”
“And why this one?”
Emma Garland stopped and turned to face the priest. Even smiling, her true expression lay hidden and mysterious to him. “You ask quite a lot of questions, Father.”
He feigned a look of distress. “Do I? I’m terribly sorry. I don’t mean to be rude…”
She began to lead him toward the garden again. The sun was burning its way below the edge of the earth, and the garden was blue with the gloom of summer evening. Still, the priest did not remove his eyeglasses.
“Don’t apologize, Father. I enjoy your com- pany…”
The garden as they moved through it had been abandoned but for a young couple they startled, seated on a bench in an amorous embrace. Straightening themselves, they rose and departed briskly. Watching them go, Emma G
arland smiled. “To be young and in love again.”
“You’re still young, Mrs. Garland. Aren’t you?”
The woman lifted her eyes to his red lenses, the smile draining from her lips. “I’m not as young as I look. But you know that, Father Venn. Don’t your spectacles show me for what I am? Do they show me as a rotted corpse?”
“You’re quite lovely, to be honest.” Venn tried not to swallow the saliva that flooded his mouth. He didn’t want her to see his adam’s apple nervously shift.
“I died with my husband, Father. In 1829.”
“How did you know what my spectacles could do?”
“As you can see mysteries through them, Father, so can I. I can see your eyes through them.”
Venn wished that the sun would last a while longer. The red lenses made the garden purple and as dark as a garden at the bottom of the sea. And like some phosphorescent fish, the pale face of the woman before him seemed almost to glow luminous.
“When the cathedral was burning, I saw a winged figure through the window,” Venn told her. “I didn’t know if it were an angel come to lead our souls away, or a dark angel who had come to destroy us.”
“I can’t help you with that, Father. I wasn’t that angel.”
“Several months ago when I visited here I saw you in town, at a distance. In the company of Mrs. Fawley. And then when the good Father Clare told me of Mrs. Fawley’s party…”
“You came to destroy me. Thinking I destroyed your church.”
“What are you, if not a fallen angel? Why are you walking the earth?”
“Why are you walking the earth, Father?”
“I have a mission. To do good. To right wrongs.”
“As do I. Father Venn…though tonight I wear this lovely dress, and mingle with this lovely group of people, in my mortal life I was not so fortunate. My husband and I both lie in that potter’s field. Pinned to that unconsecrated ground as though we were both staked through the heart. All because we didn’t have a few words said over us by some man in black. And there are babies there, Father. All cursed to a limbo of endless waiting, all for want of a few drops on their brows. It’s cruel, Father Venn. The rules aren’t fair. Men make the rules. God is more compassionate than that, I think. But men’s rules are men’s rules and that’s how the game is played.”
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