While they did that, I dutifully carried my camera over to where Anna had just reported yet another fairy. The two girls looked a little frightened at what had happened to their father.
“Where are we looking now?” I asked quietly.
“Nowhere,” Anna said, gently.
“Where is the fairy?” I asked. “The one with the crown?”
“She’s gone.”
“Where has she gone to?”
Without another word, the two little girls went running back toward the house with Walsmear and their wounded father.
I stood alone by a tall flowering bush. Quick, darting yellowjackets sailed back and forth before me. Bumblebees bobbed from flower to flower. The scents of a thousand blossoms mingled in my nostrils. Where had Templeton, Walsmear, and the children gone? I did not care. Standing there beneath the perfect sky, the waving trees, surrounded by the gently swelling and falling fabric of flowers, high, frozen jets of blossoms, still, exploded sprays of pink and lavender, blue and yellow, amid petal textures of velvet, crepe, flesh, and japan, I had the unmistakable feeling that I had reached some kind of goal, or come to the end of some quest that I had been only vaguely aware that I was pursuing. But what was it? To experience one perfect moment in the middle of an English garden? Was that my compensation for what loomed ahead as years of penury, loneliness, and shame?
I left my thoughts in question form and contemplated the bee. Now here, I thought, is a magical creature. How meager is the fantasy of the fairy compared to the reality of the bee.
Templeton’s sting was a rebuke from nature. While we search the garden for tiny, imaginary versions of ourselves, we miss entirely the more fantastic creatures that crowd there, more mysterious and impenetrable than any parallel universe of floating fays.
And so I stood perfectly still with folded arms, allowing my eyes to receive the tracery of apian flight, so like curling silver strings in the air. White butterflies, faint as powder on a mirror, yet imbued with the mysterious force of life, hovered and flitted, half-powered by their own efforts and half-carried by the breeze. That all these creatures, and all these plants and dirt and blossoms, from the earthworms to the dung beetles, to the rhododendrons, catnip, delphinium, clematis, lupine, campanula, and bearded iris should all come together here in this spot to create this wondrous place seemed a fact beyond all possibility of mere fortuity, betokening some kind of marvelous providence having the sense of an artist and the mechanical persistence of an inventor.
The girls seemed to have made fools of us.
Chapter Nineteen
How I Scared Myself
It was late afternoon of that same day. I came into the town square. It was almost deserted. A lone shop owner could be seen locking up and hurrying off. Some flat clouds, blowing up from the west, kicked up a breeze. A piece of paper blew across the square and into the graveyard.
I looked at the church as I walked toward it. Again I remarked the plainness of this structure. It was like a great stone shed with Gothic ornaments attached, the way decorations are stuck on a wedding cake. But there was no question that it was old. You could tell by looking at its walls. Every stone was hewn by crude tools. The surface had the rough texture of time.
What about that room underneath the altar? I wondered. My new darkroom. How old was that? You sometimes heard about English churches built over the sites of pagan ceremonial sites. What if my darkroom was built on a thousand-year-old place of human sacrifice? What horrible spirits might roam the utter blackness I would occupy during the developing process?
I scared myself. It helped to get my mind off my problems.
Coming up along the graveyard side of the church, I saw a tall figure coming out the side door. It was Dennis, the church handyman. Linda had introduced me to Dennis when he was helping to build the darkroom. His powerful, forty-year-old body housed the mind of an unspoiled nine-year-old. A sweet fellow, and quite handsome, he took an almost canine pleasure in meeting and greeting.
“Hello, hello, hello,” he said, bobbing his head — indeed, his whole body ducked with each hello.
I gave him a huge slap on the back. “So, Dennis, you’ve been working, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I been working. Up there. I mended that window.”
“Way up there?” I gasped in a tone I wouldn’t even have used with Anna or Clara. “My, that’s very high up.”
“Oh, I had a ladder.”
“Still, you must be very brave to climb that high.”
“Oh, ho, ho. I must be brave.”
“I wouldn’t climb up that high.”
Dennis shrugged. “Huh, huh, huh,” he laughed.
“I’ll bet you’re not afraid of anything,” I went on.
Dennis’s face grew serious. “Sometimes,” he said, “I’m afraid of the dark.”
“Afraid of the dark?” I said, with exaggerated astonishment. “Why, there’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark.”
“Yes, there is.”
“What? Tell me one thing there is to be afraid of in the dark.”
“Ghosts.”
“Ghosts? Bah. Dennis, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. And from a big fellow like you.”
“I know.” He pouted and kicked at the ground ashamedly.
“You don’t see me being afraid of the dark, do you?” I said. “I’m going in there right now. Into that dark cellar under the altar. I’ll be under there for hours in total darkness.”
Dennis looked up at me. Admiration shone from his clear blue eyes. I couldn’t help but go on, “That’s right, total darkness. And yet, who knows what kind of room that is down there? Maybe it’s an old tomb. Or an ancient dungeon. Or a torture chamber. Think how many lost souls may have died in agony between those very walls! Why, the stones may reverberate to eternity with their ghostly cries of men hung from chains, torn on the rack, or lashed with a cat-o’-nine tails.”
Dennis’s mouth hung open.
“Ghosts?” I laughed. “Why, look over there, Dennis. The graveyard comes right up to the side of the church. That means, when I’m down in my darkroom, only a few feet of stone and earth stand between me and a hundred buried corpses. Imagine what spirits could seep through as I stand there in the total darkness. Skeletons could come dancing through the walls, I could see luminous riders on horseback . . . pale maidens in flowing gowns . . . gibbering centurions in long winding sheets . . .”
“And you’re not scared?”
“Not a bit.”
The simple fellow gazed upon me with awe; and for a moment I knew what it felt like to be a hero.
“So,” I said, “if I’m not afraid of the dark, why should you be afraid?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Then you won’t be, will you?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I won’t be.”
“So there you go. You’re cured.”
“I’m not afraid!” he said, bobbing his head again. “Not afraid!”
Now it was Dennis’s turn to slap me on the back.
“Not afraid!” he shouted.
Then he abruptly turned and walked off across the square — smiling and humming to himself.
I was sorry to see him go. Very sorry. For although I’d cured Dennis of his fear, I’d managed to scare the bejabbers out of myself. With a last, wistful look at the outside world, I pushed into the church. A puff of chill air greeted me on the other side of the door. Rows of hushed pews stretched out in the darkness. A smell of dust and sandalwood hung over the stone and woodwork. Wan light glowed in the high windows, gleaming dully off the brass altar rail far below.
Skipping up to the altar, I nervously essayed a whistle. The note echoed through the vast empty space like the breath of a ghostly organ. I whistled no more.
Behind the altar, I pulled away the wooden hatch, lit the lantern, and lowered myself
down the ladder. A dry wind seemed to play at my ankles. Humming “Dixie” under my breath, I hopped to the ground and made my way to the darkroom.
I turned on the electric light. It shone slickly on the ceiling where Linda and Esmirelda had finished tacking up the rubber sheet. On the table below I saw spread the tubs, chemicals, towels, tongs, clips, and other tools of my trade. It was like running into a group of old friends in a strange neighborhood. My fear gave way. Pleasurable anticipation filled my bosom. I was ready to work; ready to get my hands wet and throw myself into the familiar routines. No more nonsense. It was time to develop pictures.
Of course, I didn’t expect the pictures to show fairies. At least, not where Anna and Clara had pointed. But who knew? The lens may have inadvertently picked up some fairy splotches elsewhere in the frame. To work, however, that was the important thing now; the getting busy and getting on with it. Total darkness did not cow me. The wraiths and optical phantasms I saw there were familiar acquaintances from other darkrooms; the smell that filled my nostrils was not the stink of death, but the lively, acrid odor of chemicals busily suffusing inert celluloid with images of light, life, and vitality.
My energy and exuberance were strong as I worked in the darkness. But when I turned on the red safelight, the uneasiness returned. Why should this be? Because in the light, I saw the strange room, and the little doorway off to my left. I kept seeing things in that doorway out of the corner of my eye. Flickering shadows. I would quickly turn. Nothing. My imagination. Or was it?
There was a noise. From upstairs in the church. At first I thought it was nothing. Then I was sure — someone was up there. I could hear footsteps and the sound of something being dragged across the flagstones overhead.
I checked that the negatives were safe. Then I lit the lantern and went up the ladder.
“Hello?” I shouted over the rows of empty pews.
No answer.
I came down off the altar. I walked up one aisle then down the other, all the time peering along the pews to make sure no one was hiding there.
No one was.
Was the front door locked? I crossed over and tried it. Unlocked. I locked it now and tried it. Secure.
The sound, I guessed, had been in my imagination. Shrugging it off, I walked back down the center aisle toward the altar. Halfway there I stopped. Someone was standing in front of the altar. A thin figure, draped in black. As I gaped, it raised a bony finger in my direction. A shovelful of ice seemed to have been dropped down the back of my shirt.
A voice croaked: “You . . .”
I might have said something; all that escaped my larynx was a croak.
The voice spoke again: “You . . . lost . . .” was all I could make out.
“Wh-what do you want?” I stammered.
The voice spoke more clearly now. “You the fella that lost the suitcase?” it asked.
All became clear. This was the Gypsy woman Walsmear had told me about. The one who’d recovered my valise. She wanted four pounds for its return.
“But I didn’t even pay that much for it,” I protested,
The old woman shrugged. “If you want it,” she said.
“Why, I could just take it now,” I said. “It was stolen from me in the first place.”
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t. I can tell. You’re not the type who’d fight with an old woman. Would you?”
“No. Anyway, you’d probably have Gypsy men find me and beat me up for it.”
“Gypsies aren’t like that,” she said. “We don’t hurt anyone. Food, and song, and wine. That’s all we want. Look here, I only got two teeth left. But I can still chew salami.”
“How impressive. But before I pay you for this, how do I know there’s anything in it. Are my clothes still there?”
“No.”
I sighed. “My shoe-polishing kit?”
“No.”
“How about the papers? There was a folder with some papers.”
“Still there.”
I handed her the four pounds. She handed me the suitcase. I opened it. The papers were there.
“By the way,” I asked as I watched her count the bills, “is it bad form to ask how you came by this property of mine?”
“Bad form. Very bad. But I’ll tell you. I got it from a couple of fellas I calls the fairy men.”
“Why do you call them the fairy men?”
“Because they asks me, ‘Granny, what do we get if we catch ourselfs a fairy?’ Grown men they was, too. So I says to them, ‘If you catches a fairy, and she can’t get away, she has to give you a wish.’ And they says, ‘Anything we wants, Granny?’ And I says, ‘Anything you wants.’ And they was happy as could be to hear that, I’ll tell you.”
“Is that true?”
“You wouldn’t believe it, would you? Two grown men — ”
“No, no. I mean about the wish. Is that true?”
“What, you, too? You’re prize gulls! I just made it up.”
“Well, what made them think they could catch a fairy?”
“I dunno. They thought there were fairies about. In Burkinwell. Ahh, if I was younger. I’d give you fairies. You don’t find gulls like you lot every day, you don’t.” She winked a glittering, black eye.
I asked, “Was one of the men tall, and the other one short?”
“Mmmm. Could be. But don’t ask me no more. And I won’t tell you no lies.”
The Gypsy woman waddled down the steps of the church. I locked the front door behind her. Her words had filled me with new distress. I no longer feared the supernatural. I feared two all-too-real criminals: Paolo and Shorty. The two must have read the legal papers that were in the stolen valise. Returning to the darkroom, I studied the papers themselves. They were covered with palm prints and cup rings. I reread the documents. They were full of references to photographs “purporting to show fairies in Burkinwell” and “fairies to be found in the garden of Brian Templeton.” The criminals wouldn’t understand exactly what was going on from reading the documents; but they would know something was up — and that it involved fairies in Templeton’s garden.
Were Paolo and Shorty following me? Is that why they were in the Gypsy camp that night? Perhaps they were lurking outside the church even now. Or maybe they were haunting Templeton’s garden? Perhaps the girls were in danger.
The girls — I returned to the darkroom and finished developing the photographs I had taken that afternoon. I didn’t expect to find fairies in those photos, and I didn’t. There were no fairies in any of the prints: No prettily dressed and modishly coiffed fairies, like Sir Arthur championed; no faint, blotchy, blurry fairies, such as I had seen in Anna’s and Clara’s photographs. No fairies. Period.
What were the results of the morning’s labor? A few inartistically pretty shots of Templeton’s garden; and many not-very-candid shots of two little girls looking guilty and confused — as well they might, leading their own father, an officer of the law, and a distinguished visiting photographer on an embarrassing wild-goose chase.
Chapter Twenty
How I Discovered the Minister’s Strange Secret
That night in the darkroom under the church wasn’t the first time I had scared myself. I’ve been doing it since I was a little boy. I used to do it most often at midnight — the hump of the evening. Midnight always struck the symbolic note of evil in my heart. Its twelve chimes signaled an end to things; the fullness of hours; a crowding of spirits.
Death.
I recall the approach of midnight when I was a child. Lying in my bed, in my little room over my father’s North End shop, trembling beneath a quilt lovingly sewn by a grandmother’s hands, I would stiffen as the Old North Church chimed the quarter hours after eleven; the hands of its black-faced clock inexorably crawling toward “the witching hour” (a phrase heard once, and destined to echo forever between m
y ears).
How to hold in abeyance the terror emanating from midnight and all its implications? I would strain my ears toward the street outside, hoping to soothe myself with some prosaic sound of ordinary life: the clop of a passing cart horse; the laughs of late-night revelers; distant tram whistles; the wheels of the rubbish cart grinding against the paving stones. Unfortunately, as I did this, I heard other sounds: I remember the mournful wind, rushing in off the bay; a blast from the trackless Atlantic off beyond Cape Cod, sounding like a chorus of moans, and picking who knew what horrors from Copp’s Hill burying ground a few blocks away and delivering them square into my little room to terrorize me in my bed.
My terrors would last for a full hour, from midnight until one o’clock. Lying awake, I would stare at the door, expecting it at any minute to creak slowly open and admit the shrouded, scythe-bearing figure I had seen in magazine illustrations labeled “Death.” It was fortunate for my sanity that this condition of fear was clapped in such constricting irons of time. By one o’clock, the witching hour had ended. At that moment, terror abated; the remaining hours of the night were marked by short, sweet chimes from the Old North Church, each hour marking an orderly stage in the march from darkness to light.
We can never shake off certain childhood notions. At least, I can’t. So it was with some relief that I noted the time as I emerged from the cellar of St. Anastansias. It was one o’clock exactly. The witching hour was over. I could walk back to Templeton’s cottage without fear of the supernatural. From there on in, merrier spirits owned the night. Even as I clapped my watchcase closed, the wraiths and spirits were fleeing back to their graves (I did not glance toward the graveyard), while Puck and his minions began their revels amid the streams and forests.
As I crossed the town square of Burkinwell, I forgot my personal disappointments. The silence of the night was like a charm. How different this was from my life in London, where I might have equal disappointments, but not under a sky so full of crisp, bright stars; a stellar display so long forgotten by me, but which has been burning on, cool and steady through the years of my “exile,” and will continue to do so long after my death tomorrow.
Photographing Fairies: A Novel Page 17