Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  On the other hand, here was this husband I had wronged. I would soon stand face to face with him in his church. And as I approached him, I could tell by his expression that he was agitated about something. Had Linda been seized with remorse? Had she leaned across the tousled morning sheets and told him? Or was he still ignorant, and could I get by with just a short exchange of pleasantries?

  I coughed as I came toward him. He looked up.

  “Castle,” he said, taking his chin thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. “You’re a civilized man.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, we’re both civilized men, are we not?”

  “I would like to think so.”

  Was he about to demand satisfaction? Would his seconds be calling on me in the morning?

  “Would you,” he asked, “get rid of the church?”

  “The church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well — I suppose — no. No, I don’t think so. I mean, it serves a purpose, doesn’t it? Gives people hope. Ordinary people need something, I suppose — King James . . . language . . . very beautiful . . . morals and civilized values . . . Ten Commandments . . .”

  “No, no, no,” Drain waved his hand. “Not the Church. The church — small c. This building. The one we’re standing in. There’s not really much to it, is there? It’s not one of the architectural gems of England. In fact, it’s really kind of pathetic, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not Chartres,” I agreed. “But there’s something comforting about these old places.”

  “That’s right. You’re American. You wouldn’t understand. That’s the whole value of England to you. It doesn’t matter to you how nasty and inefficient we are over here. All you want us to do is preserve something old out of our shared culture. But you can’t stop progress. Castle. I’d like to tear this place down. Put up a modern church.”

  “I don’t think your parishioners would agree.”

  “Probably not,” he sighed. “Sometimes I wonder where the Church — capital c now — would be if it weren’t for the appeal of these ancient buildings.”

  Trying to lighten things up, I gave a little laugh. “For my part,” I said, “I quite approve of them. That is, I don’t know how they are for praying. But they’re fine for developing pictures. You know, the darkroom?”

  “Oh yes, the pictures.” Drain nodded absently. “How is all that going? Getting some nice views then?”

  “Some beautiful landscapes and gardens.”

  “That’s all very nice, Castle. But you know, I’m coming more and more to think that there’s not much out there. In the world I mean. I think it’s all right here.

  In the body. Those Eastern chaps may have a better grasp of things than we do in that respect. Your Hindus. They emphasize discipline of the flesh. Exercise. Concentration. I’m the same way.”

  He looked up at me.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve felt, Castle. Some of the sensations.” His eyes focused on some distant point. “The sensations,” he whispered, and walked past me. I heard him exit the side door.

  I went down to the cellar, more than imagining what he was talking about. If it was his nights in the garden, there was indeed food for spiritual thought there.

  Fully clothed, I developed the test prints. By checking them against my notes, I got a pretty good idea of which settings would get me the best pictures of the fairies. When I climbed back up into the church, Rev. Drain was gone. There were voices coming from the choir. I looked up and saw Dennis’s golden head poking above the shadows. Next to him stood Linda. She was pointing at the wood paneling and gesturing authoritatively. A moment later Dennis stuck a couple of nails between his lips and climbed the ladder. While he pounded away, Linda turned around. She waved. I waved back. She pointed surreptitiously at Dennis and winked.

  “Okay?” I mouthed.

  She nodded and disappeared.

  I met her in the vestibule. We kissed.

  “I’m sorry for running off like that yesterday,” she said. “But can you imagine — ?” She burst out laughing at the recollection.

  “I don’t have to,” I said, rolling my eyes toward the choir. Dennis was still pounding away.

  “I wouldn’t worry about him,” she said. “He’s so innocent. Nothing makes an impression. But tell me, how are your pictures?”

  “Oh, they’re fine. Fine. I’m very pleased.”

  “So where are you off to now?”

  “Now?”

  I stared into her clear, relaxed face. There was not a trace of powder or makeup on her strong brow and shapely nose. And it was not missed. I wondered how much I could tell her. How much I should involve her in the fairy situation. Should I let it all out now, or should I wait?

  I decided to wait. I had a fantasy. I would hand her a crisp, exquisitely detailed photograph of a fairy. She would gasp. There would be no doubt. She would love me and fall into my arms. To show her anything less than the perfect photograph of a fairy would be to see her turn her eyes to me doubtfully. To tell her the whole messy story of Doyle, Walsmear, and the other photographs would be to court her scorn, or worse, pity.

  “I’m going botanizing,” I said, unfolding my sketch of the magic wildflower. “I’d like to photograph one of these. They’re very rare. A decent photograph could be quite valuable.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Have you ever seen a flower like this? It’s very small. Not much bigger than your little finger.”

  She thought she may have, but couldn’t really remember where. I told her I was determined to search Burkinwell until I found one. She asked if she could come along. But before I could answer, her husband came bounding up the steps of the church and into the vestibule. As I was standing rather close to Linda, I jumped back. This might have aroused another man’s suspicions, but Drain hardly noticed. In fact, he barely acknowledged us in passing.

  “Oh, darling,” Linda called after him. “Do you mind if I go out with Charles here? We’re going to look for a certain wildflower. Botanizing, he calls it, don’t you, Charles?”

  “Do as you like, dear,” said Drain, striding down the aisle. “I have a great deal of work to do.”

  Linda smiled at me and shrugged. “There we go then.”

  We walked out into the afternoon sunshine.

  With all that has followed, the sweetness of that afternoon has stayed in my memory. I think back in wonder on the simple hope that filled me then. How I held in my bosom the greatest secret of the age: My awareness that I had the power, with a single revelation, to change the course of historical, artistic, scientific, and religious thought. I believed then that I was enjoying my last moments of privacy, that soon I would be engulfed by worldwide fame. It was delicious to know all this imminent grandeur, and yet to be able to enjoy these simple pleasures; to walk on a pleasant summer afternoon through a small English town at the side of a delightful woman, visiting small gardens, chatting with householders, marching through open fields, and resting at the bottom of shade trees. The sky was gloriously clear. And when no one could see us, Linda took my arm and we walked side by side like a proper couple walking through a park in London, a thing I hoped we two would do together someday soon.

  We talked about all sorts of things, among them Templeton and his daughters.

  “He is not fit to care for them,” Linda said angrily.

  “It is a disgrace. You saw how it was when you were there. They are completely unsupervised. I’ve already contacted the child welfare authorities. I’m going to see if I can get Anna and Clara remanded to us as guardians.”

  “Us?”

  “Since my husband is a clergyman, I don’t expect there will be much trouble. And you know they’re such lovely girls. They deserve so much better. And I — I can’t have children of my own. . . .”

&nb
sp; It was a disappointment to hear her talk about a future “us” with the Rev. Drain. I had some hopes — but then, what did I expect?

  “Have you ever taken it up with Templeton?” I asked.

  “Yes. In an indirect way. But if you come even close to the subject with him, he goes all hysterical. He’s really rather like an old woman sometimes.”

  A degenerate, syphilitic old woman, I thought. By coincidence, we just then emerged from the copse at the far end of the field directly across the road from Templeton’s cottage. I could see its roof, chimney, and pointed flanking trees in the distance. The ground over which we now walked was the very place where I had spotted the fairy fog as I sat against the garden wall two nights previous.

  I wondered again how widely the fairies were scattered across Burkinwell, England, the world? However much that might be, the magic flowers that enabled one to see them were not so easy to come by. There were none to be found alongside the farmer’s ditch, around the trees, or in any of the other spots nearby, otherwise rich with wildflowers purple, gold, and orange.

  Despite my disappointment, I was not at all unhappy. Being with Linda filled me with hope of a thousand kinds. One of the flowers would turn up, I knew. Perhaps their season was over. So what? They’d come back next year. In the meantime — I walked Linda back to the rectory.

  There I asked the inevitable question: “When will I see you again?”

  “Soon,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  How I Saved the Templetons from Burglars

  The night was damp. Ragged clouds sailed before a quarter moon. They took the shape of rearing horses, baroque mermen, and glowering prophets. With my camera equipment slung over my shoulder, I kicked a stone before me down the dirt road. Dim light came from nearby houses. I took the opportunity to scan the verges for the “magic” wildflowers. Alas, there were none. I was disappointed to be going out to photograph the fairies at night without even the means of seeing them, but I had a pretty good idea of where the fairies tended to gather; if, indeed, they were out this night. All I really had to do would be to point my camera at the great tree in the garden. If the camera followed its propensity of capturing on film that which is invisible to the naked eye, I should have my fairies. There were no lights on in Templeton’s cottage. I could have simply entered the garden through the front gate, but I was, after all, trespassing, and that policeman had been alerted to me. So I took the long way around, crossing to the field on the other side of the road and going down a bit before crossing back into the woods behind the factory, which was dark and eerie in the uncertain moonlight. Glass crunched underfoot as I walked alongside it, pushing away charred beams and climbing over ruined walls. Before I had left the Starry Night, I’d had a few glasses of beer. Not unnaturally, I now felt the need to relieve myself.

  Even though I could look around and see that I was alone, modesty would not let me relieve myself out in the “open,” as it were. So I found a hollow doorframe and went into what was once the building’s interior to do my business. I was in the midst of doing so when I was startled by the sound of footsteps. It was most awkward. For I could not stop the stream without soiling myself, yet I was afraid the steady trickle would give me away. And as the steps came closer, and the stream seemed as if it would never end, I cursed all beer, brewers, and bartenders of the world. I promised, if the Lord would save me, never to touch another glass.

  It finally stopped. As the last drop fell, I looked up and saw two men passing the empty doorframe, not seeing me where I stood. I could not identify them from a quick glance in the dark; but they were headed toward the garden, as I was.

  Buttoning up, I took slow steps on in the same direction. With the factory wall between us, the two did not suspect that they were being shadowed. While they rustled through the weeds and kicked aside branches and timbers as they walked, I tiptoed and leaped like Nijinsky through the iron bars, fallen timbers, and broken machinery inside the factory. At one point, however, my foot struck what must have been a nut or a screw, sending it pinging off a section of metal shelving. The rustling progress outside came to a halt. All I could hear was my own thin emission of breath.

  “You hear something?” asked one of the men.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “There’s rats in there,” answered the other.

  My shirt was instantly drenched in sweat. I shivered. The voices: I recognized them. Even from those few syllables. The two men outside were none other than Paolo and Shorty. I dropped against the wall so that I might hear what else they had to say.

  “You got the floor plan?” Shorty was speaking.

  “Got it,” said Paolo.

  “Let’s have a look.”

  “What’s to look at? The stuff is in the library.”

  “So where’s the library?”

  “In the house.”

  “Where in the house? What room is it?”

  “It’s the room with all the books. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

  “What if we wake somebody?”

  “We get rid of them.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “What of it?”

  “If we wake anyone, we don’t get paid.”

  “Says who?”

  “Pocus.”

  “Pocus? They’re going to pin it on him anyway. He doesn’t have a chance.”

  “You want to double-cross him?”

  Paolo laughed. “Of course. Whatever the hell these pictures are he wants they’re worth a lot of money to that Arthur Conan Doyle in London. You read the papers in that bastard’s bag. The one from the train.”

  “So what are you saying? I don’t get it.”

  “I’m saying I don’t care if we have to get rid of the whole family in there. You understand? They’ll pin it on Walsmear, I’ll see to that.”

  Shorty inhaled sharply. “I don’t — ”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I heard them start moving again. They were taking care to creep more quietly now. Only this time, I wasn’t following. I was standing stock-still, stunned and terrified. How could Walsmear have been so stupid? He’d hired Paolo and Shorty — of all people — to break into Templeton’s house and steal the photographs.

  Those two insane, violent men in the same house with Anna and Clara! It could not happen. I wouldn’t let it. I had to raise the alarm. Help! Help! But how could I shout? It would do no good. The nearest neighbor was too far to hear. And I would only reveal myself to Paolo and Shorty. They, in turn, would surely kill me.

  Was there any way to stop them?

  The only thing for me to do would be to get away at that very moment without being seen. I could get out onto the road, run to the cottage, and rouse Templeton and the girls before Paolo and Shorty got there. The villains would be too cowardly to attack a house that was fully lit and where they were expected. But even if they were mad enough to do that, we still had the chance of escape through the doors and windows. That, at least, was a hope.

  I rehearsed this plan mentally as I made my way back through the factory to the road. Unfortunately, being so preoccupied, I accidentally stepped on a board hidden under a pile of soot. This board balanced a panel of a dozen or so glass squares and an empty bucket. These shot up in the air and came crashing down, giving the night the percussive color of a Stravinsky ballet.

  Hurriedly disentangling myself from the camera strap that had fallen down around my legs, I took off at a run through a hole in the wall. Flying through the woods, I made for the road. But I could hear footfalls behind. I turned to see Paolo and Shorty in pursuit.

  Trying to evade them, I zigged and zagged, feinted, and spun. But this cleverness — as the cleverness we fancy in ourselves always does — slowed me down. And I was soon tackled from behind.

  After the jarring crash into the dirt and leaves, there was a
brief tussle. I grabbed at cloth and hair, rolling about in a miasma of Paolo and Shorty’s horrible breath. Then I did something unaccountable.

  Paolo’s long arm was around the lower part of my face, squeezing and choking. Managing to free my jaw for a moment, I gasped for breath. Then I earnestly whispered, “Quiet, you idiots, quiet! Do you want us to get caught?”

  This comment made no impression. For the moment. Paolo’s arm closed once more around my throat. But I managed to free my jaw once more.

  “You’ll ruin everything,” I hissed. “Quiet.”

  “Paolo,” Shorty made a motion to stay his partner’s murderous grip. “What’s he saying.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Find out who he is.”

  “Who are you?” Paolo snorted foully in my ear.

  “Do you want to get us arrested?” I answered, roughly. “Can’t you keep quiet?”

  I felt my arm twisted behind my back. Paolo almost pulled it off as he stood me up.

  “Who are you?” he asked, bending over to look at my face.

  I was bent almost double and gasping with pain. “It’s me? Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “The train. From London. The compartment. You carried my bags. Ouch — stop, stop, stop.”

  Shorty now bent to look in my face. “It’s him,” he said. “It really is him.”

  “Goddamn.” Paolo let go of my arm and pushed me to the ground. “It’s him, is it? Let’s get rid of him.”

  “No, no, no, you idiots,” I said. “I can help you.”

  Making up facts as I went along, I tried to convince them that I was there that night for the same reason that they were. That Walsmear had also asked me to break into the cottage and steal the photographs.

  “I wish he’d told me he’d hired professionals,” I said, with feigned bitterness. “Then I wouldn’t have to be out here tonight. That bastard. I’ll get him for this.”

  Paolo and Shorty consulted with brief looks. I could tell they almost believed me.