Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  Still, I dared not stop. At the end of the field I vaulted a fence and found myself in a farmyard. There were sheds and sties, troughs and chicken coops. Still running, I felt secure enough to look over my shoulder.

  I should have looked where I was going.

  I fell down a hole. It was a deep, funnel-shaped hole, filled with gravel. I rode a small avalanche of stones and dirt and gravel down to the bottom. There, my head struck something hard. I saw a purple flash, then nothing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  How I Was Roughly Treated

  The first I saw was light. Intolerable light. Head-smashing, eye-crumpling light. Then there was the dizziness. And uncontrollable sickness.

  Someone had hold of me. He was picking me up from the front. I tried to look into his face, but all I saw was the sun. A hideous glare. Someone else seized my hands from behind. I felt a rope bind my wrists. I may have cried out. Rough hands pushed me up the side of the pit. It was not easy work. The sand and gravel gave way underfoot, and we all kept sliding back down to the bottom. I wasn’t always sure which way was up and which way was down. I was that sick. The world was spinning. I was retching. Distinctions such as those between up and down, standing and falling, or living and dead were too nice for me to make just then. My captors started pulling me up out of the pit by my ankles. I blacked out again.

  It was a merciful oblivion. Only a few impressions penetrated. Hands still tied, I was aware of lying on a dusty plank floor that smelted strongly of animal. The shadows of two large men, framed in a glowing rectangle, stretched out over the planking. I could hear them talking about me. Apparently, I disgusted them. I tried to defend myself through speech, which rose unintelligibly and brought with it another wave of nausea. Most uncomfortable of all was the binding that dug into my wrists. I had to lie on my side in the same position for I don’t know how long. Every time I retched, the muscles of my torso seemed to tear. I could not lift my face from the rough floor. Every passing footstep was like a pounding hammer in my brain.

  Many footsteps came and went as I lay there. Every so often, a foot would poke into my tender midsection, or it would assess my wakefulness by lifting my chin on the toe of its shoe. Its owner, seeing my bleary, half-opened eyes, would then let my head drop back onto the floor.

  From all that had happened to me up to this point, what lessons can be learned? What advice can I give to the young photographer, based on this experience? Well, to begin with, when traveling, always carry your darkroom equipment in a sturdy, well-padded trunk. You never know what sort of hazards you may encounter on your journey. Don’t simply go with the first porters you encounter at the station. Look for some with a little spit and polish to their appearance: If they take good care of themselves, they will probably take good care of your luggage. In business, never see anyone who does not have an appointment. If someone shows up anyway and becomes violent, show them the door. Don’t let yourself be intimidated. What sort of world would this be if we all caved in every time a bully raised his fist? Also, learn how to chat. Chat with people in the street, people in shops, at parties and other social gatherings. This way you will learn the social skills that are crucial to success in business. Pay your bills on time; keep an eye on practical matters; and don’t leave too much of the important work to your assistants. Finally, don’t be overly impressed with the notions of famous or powerful personages. We human beings are strange creatures; and the most outlandish ideas can plant themselves in our heads, taking root and bending all thoughts, dreams, and powers of judgment to the shape of that idea, until reality becomes little more than a set of vague shadows, and the idea alone stands out with vital radiance.

  I didn’t know how much time I lay on that filthy floor. My last impression of this scene was of the sound of many new footsteps. I heard new voices, not all of them harsh — some of them even kind. Hands rumbled at the bonds on my wrists and feet. When those ties were loosened, my whole body snapped forward like a bow, reflexively assuming that position so masterfully observed and rendered in Leonardo’s notebooks: The embryonic curl. And thus I slept for a long, long time.

  Book Two

  Chapter Seventeen

  How I Awoke

  I was immersed in darkness. But that darkness was not complete. Luminous creatures, loosed from the pool of dreams, patrolled the deep, black trenches of my oblivion. Had these thin, lurid illusions, these inconsequential lights, been all that was left to me, the guards manning the last outpost of my consciousness might have abandoned their duty, tossed away their shakos and walked home, dragging their rifles through the snow. Fortunately, I was aware of another light, a deep, rich, pink refulgence, dawning far away, beyond the sealed, sticky rim of the eyelid. Gradually suffusing the murk with shades of gold, peach, and amber, this light drew me forward, luring me from the caverns of sleep with the promise of a new beginning, on a new ground: not the permanently scarred, corpse-strewn Cemetery Ridge of a life lived so far, but a smooth screen, across whose glowing expanse life’s tragedies and confusions might slide like moving shadows — and so pass, and flicker off, leaving not the flat, meager rectangle of the cinema screen, hovering dimly behind the shoulders of a shuffling, departing audience, but a vaulting dome, blank as satisfaction is blank, shorn of the images of desire; light as light is remembered before the search for shadows, as the sun might appear to one situated comfortably in the heart of a flawless pearl in a necklace casually draped over a jewel box on a dressing table next to an open window.

  I opened my eyes to find myself in a strange bed in a strange room. I lay on my back. My body was covered with a blue blanket. The hem of a crisp, white sheet peeped out a few inches beneath my chin. I was dressed in strange pajamas.

  I tried to raise my head. The pain was outrageous. I let it drop back onto the pillow, and looked straight ahead over the mound of my feet. Across these foothills, I could see the room’s single window — a small, mullioned square in the whitewashed wall, casting a long box of yellow sunlight directly onto my chest. Through the glass I could see trees, whose gently waving bundles of leaves outlined a V shape brimming with luminous blue sky. Clouds of flowering shrubs puffed and swelled in the middle ground; enormous red flowers growing hard by the window nosed the glass like curious fish.

  It was a vision. Crisp with the hard edge of reality, yet soft, as if seen through a haze of milky luminescence. It was a vision that repaid the closest inspection not with the tattered, threadbare details quickly passed over on first view, but with richer shadows, deeper colors, and more elusive distances.

  I was not such a fool as to analyze what I could see of the room and the landscape outside the window. I did not wonder or ask myself any questions, but simply lay there, enjoying where I was without doubting that I was indeed there and that where I was was where I belonged.

  There was a rough, wooden door on one wall, with a crucifix nailed to the lintel overhead. As I lay there, the door opened and a little girl came into the room. She was an exquisite blond child, carrying an armload of linens toward a chair on the opposite side of the room. She did not look at me as she entered; in fact, humming quietly, she seemed altogether in a world of her own.

  “So,” I said, “this must be heaven. And you must be an angel.” Unfortunately, this didn’t come out the way I intended. My condition resulted in the words sounding something more like, “Tho, ghee muh buh habbah. Zhu muh buh an ga.”

  Upon hearing the sound of my voice, the girl swung around and dropped the linens. She stared for a moment; then cried, “Daddy!”

  I closed my eyes. The Polish Army entered the room. Or what sounded like the Polish Army, all wearing heavy boots and stomping as hard as they could. I opened my eyes and raised my head as far as I could. No army, but only four people — three of whom I knew.

  One of my visitors was Linda Drain, who quickly advanced to the side of the bed. She leaned over and maternally straightened the line of the
sheet over my shoulders. Her arms, hands, and smiling face passed through my field of vision, then retreated. By rolling my eyes downward, I could see her husband standing at the foot of the bed. His arms were folded. His lips were pursed. His look was altogether one of clerical disapproval.

  Behind the Rev. Drain, I could see a tall, scrawny figure that I recognized from church as Brian Templeton. His eyes glittered with an unnatural brightness as he looked down at me. A shock of pale hair stood up on his forehead, like a wisp of medicinal cotton.

  The fourth visitor was a younger man who was in the process of putting a stethoscope around his neck.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, advancing to the side of the bed. “Awake now, are we?”

  I tried to raise myself on my elbows. There was a flash of pain in my head. I collapsed back onto the bed.

  Linda put a hand on my arm.

  “Don’t make him talk, Dr. Pride,” she said. Then she looked down into my face. “Don’t talk.”

  “I’ll try not to,” I said. The words came out with surprising clarity and distinctness.

  The Rev. Drain folded his arms and leaned forward. “Ha,” he said. “He sounds all right to me.”

  The doctor chuckled. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “It’s a head case. Possible concussion. Could be worse complications. These things never show themselves on examination. Not that I’ve had much experience with this sort of thing. Well, I’ve some experience. I want you to be confident in me, Mr. Castle. It’s very important that I have your full confidence.”

  I had no confidence in him. For one thing, he was young — like that Detective Cubb back at police headquarters. For another thing, I could see in his nervously darting eyes that he didn’t have a clue as to what to do with me.

  “Here, let me look into your eyes,” he said. “Follow my finger. This way, now this way. A match? Anyone got a match? Ah, yes. There’s one in my bag. Never mind. I didn’t know you smoked, Mrs. Drain. Here now, Mr. . . . What’s your name? Castle? Here now, Mr. Castle — ouch!”

  The smoking match flew from his fingers. Linda reached down and flicked it off the coverlet.

  “Okay, I’ll light another one,” said the doctor, waving it in front of my face. “Hmmm, seems okay. But what can you say about one of these head wounds? They can be mysterious. We learned that in the war. Not that I was in the war. I was too young, really. Not that I don’t know what I’m doing here . . .”

  I sensed it was dangerous to lie passively in this man’s care. So despite the fact that it was painful, I tried to raise myself to a sitting position. I did so by degrees. Everyone protested, but I was determined. Linda helped me each step along the way, raising the sheet and gently repositioning the pillow under my head.

  Down at the end of the bed, Rev. Drain stood immobile. His arms remained folded. The look of disapproval on his features deepened. I threw him the best smile I could under the circumstances, as his wife plumped the pillow under the back of my neck. He took my smile as an opening: “The shame of it is,” he said, “is that you’re so young.”

  “Oh, Tom,” his wife said remonstratively.

  “I mean it,” Drain said. “To abuse a young, healthy body that way. It’s a sin against God’s creation. Our body is God’s gift to us, and it’s our responsibility not to dissipate that gift. It’s bad enough among us Englishmen; but I never expected it from an American. I always pictured the American as vital, energetic, strong. This weakness surprises me.”

  “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?” Linda said.

  “It’s difficult not to,” Drain said. “But I’m prepared to be corrected.”

  He looked at me. But I was in no position to correct him. What had I done? How had I got there? I was fully prepared to believe that I had committed some scandalous act subsequently knocked out of my memory.

  “I don’t remember much,” I said. “But I apologize for anything I might have done, if I’ve done anything. I only hope no one was hurt, or if they were it was not serious. By the way, where am I?”

  “You are in my home,” Brian Templeton said as he stepped forward.

  He had a curious voice to go with his tense, etiolated face. It was a high, strained, wheezy voice. He didn’t always have his teeth clenched, but it seemed that way.

  “I am Brian Templeton,” he said. “The Rev. and Mrs. Drain have arranged for you to stay here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “So kind.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said, waving a boney white hand. “I’m being paid for it.”

  “Who?” I tried to sit up further. Once again, the pain pulled me back down.

  “Don’t worry,” Linda said. “The church is taking care of everything through St. Anastansias’s Wayfarers’ Fund. It dates from — what was it, Tom? The sixteenth century? It pays for sick or injured travelers to be taken care of in a parishioner’s home while they recover. You and Brian are the first beneficiaries in over a hundred years, I think.”

  Rev. Drain nodded. “You can thank Linda. The fund had been more or less forgotten. Lucky for you, she came across the charter a few months back while she was going through some old records.”

  “I thought of it immediately when I heard you were tied up in the Klempers’ barn.”

  I waved my hand for her to stop. “How,” I asked, “did I get tied up in the Klempers’ barn?”

  “That’s what we hoped you’d tell us,” Drain said.

  “He doesn’t have to tell us anything,” Linda said. “Mr. Castle’s private affairs are his own business.”

  “I don’t remember too much,” I said. “Who are the Klempers?”

  “A farmer and his son,” said Linda. “They were not very pleased with you.”

  “What did I do?”

  “They found you at the bottom of a hole they’d been digging for a — ah, cesspool. Apparently, however, you weren’t the first. They’ve been having trouble with trespassers. Drunks from the Gypsy camp. Not that I’m saying you were drunk. Or that you were coming from the Gypsy camp.”

  I didn’t address those points in reply. “How did I get here?” I asked.

  “The Klempers called the police. Constable Walsmear went out there and retrieved you. Then he called us. Somehow he knew that we knew you. I suggested that he talk the Klempers out of having you sent to jail, and I suggested to Tom that we use the Wayfarers’ Fund to help you,”

  “How long ago?”

  “You’ve been lying here unconscious for two days.”

  “My God. But I feel like I’ve barely slept. And my head — ”

  Here the young doctor interrupted. “I’m sorry, everybody,” he said. “But I’d like to perform a more thorough check of our patient here.”

  “Come, let’s leave them alone,” said Drain leading his wife and Brian Templeton out of the room.

  The physician hummed and clucked as he gave me what appeared to be a comprehensive investigation. Various parts of my anatomy were poked and prodded.

  “Nothing wrong with you, old boy,” he said. “Just a bad hangover, I should say.”

  “A two-day hangover?”

  “Could have been worse, you know. Much worse. Those Gypsy girls will rob you of everything. Even your clothes. My advice is to go with a group. That’s what I do. You can have your fun and there’s safety in numbers.” He winked, stood up, and loudly cleared his throat. “If anyone’s still out there, you can come back in.”

  Templeton, Drain, and Linda re-entered. Linda came over to my side. She smiled down at me, briefly showing a matronly double chin.

  “Well, how is he?” Drain demanded. He sounded impatient. I suppose he wanted to get out and run in the fine weather. I didn’t blame him.

  “He is fundamentally sound,” the doctor announced. “But there is that nasty bump on the head. So I recommend that he not be moved or agitated
for a few days. Time alone will tell us if there is a concussion.”

  “Should he be given anything?” Linda asked.

  “Bed rest,” the doctor said.

  “Voilà,” said Linda. “And what about changing that bandage?”

  Bandage? I reached up and touched my head. A bandage was wound around my forehead. So where was the bump? I felt around the back of my head. Ouch! There it was.

  “I’m not going to do that,” said Templeton. “I’m not a nurse. You’re just paying me to keep him here and feed him. Not change his dressings.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Brian,” Linda said. “I’ll come round and do it.”

  “Won’t need it for but a few more days,” said the doctor.

  “All right then, now that we know that Mr. Castle is all right, we can go.” This from Rev. Drain, who took his wife’s arm and patted her hand.

  “Of course,” smiled Linda. “I’ll look in on you tomorrow, Mr. Castle.”

  “Thank you so much for everything,” I called after them as they left the room.

  Brian Templeton alone remained. He stood there unsteadily, looking down at me out of his pink-rimmed eyes. He grabbed his hair and pulled upward — a habitual gesture that guaranteed the continued presence of his erect forelock.

  “This is so very kind of you,” I said.

  “Not kind,” he wheezed through clenched teeth. “I’m being paid. I told you.”

  “I’ll be paying them back, of course.”