The Soul Consortium

by Simon West-Bulford

  As Fran hurries away and the two men shuffle through the door back into the icy evening, I call their attention. “Wait! Tell me, please. Who is the artist that wants Mama?”

  They shift awkwardly and exchange nervous glances.

  “Foreign gentleman. Goes by the name of Keitus Vieta.”

  THREE

  I wait only a short while, just long enough to make sure Fran has truly gone, before leaving Mama’s empty cottage. The thought of that home now hollow and cold invades my thoughts, its vacuum leaching from my mind the old and fond memories of Fran and me chasing our brothers through bright rooms, screaming and giggling. Of family meals alive with the noise of excitement and mirth. Of tender evenings when stories were told around an ember-warmed hearth. Even if I did not have to retrieve Mama’s body, I could in no way stay there tonight.

  Wrapped in my warmest winter clothes, I step out into the dim street and lock the door. I wish I followed those two men immediately after they left, but fear prevented me. At least I was given the name of the artist. I had not heard of Keitus Vieta before, so he must be new to the town. Armand Balleo, the leaseholder, will tell me where Mr. Vieta has settled. If anyone knows, he will.

  I hurry across the fast settling snow that coats the cobblestones, looking up briefly to see the time on the clock tower a few streets away. It’s almost ten. I am surprised to see so few people out. Then I remember what Fran said about the riots, and I look again at the clock. The glow of fire lighting its face is brighter—an indication perhaps that the mob or its violence in the center of town has not yet been subdued.

  I stop to listen. There’s a dull crackle of fire, the sharp tinkling of breaking glass, and a body of voices crying out indecipherable abuse. A pang of anxiety holds me in place as I imagine fighting through an angry crowd to find Armand, but I hear Mama calling for me. I have let her down all my life. I cannot let her down when she needs me most.

  I press onward, turn the corner, pass the stables where horses are stomping nervously, quicken my pace. Ahead the shouting is getting louder, and when I reach the end of the road where the local inn is belching smoke from its windows and doors, a throng of staggering men lurches into view, coughing, grasping at their grimy collars for air. I recognize two of them, and as I back up against the bricks of the house next to the tavern, one of them sees me.

  “Dominique? What are you … doing here? Get back home. Get … to safety. They’re burning the whole … the whole town!”

  “What? Who would do such a thing?”

  “It’s Balleo. He—”

  “Come on, Vidi.” One of his companions snatches at his sleeve. “They’re almost on us. We have to go.”

  “Quickly, Dom, come with us?”

  Before I can answer him or even think about where to go, a bottle flies between us and bursts into a ball of fire on the wet road. The flames are soon lost amongst the snow, but two more bottles follow, smashing into the opposite wall. The men begin to run, pausing to shoot an apologetic glance in my direction. With Balleo implicated in the riots, I have nowhere to go. Where will I find this Keitus Vieta? How will I stop him from violating Mama?

  Burning air brushes my cheeks as the wind changes, and the bitter damp of the inn wall soaks through to my back, assaulting my senses in a confusion of hot and cold. Directionless and panic-stricken at the sound of marching feet beyond the billowing cloud of smoke rolling into the street, I ball my fists and press myself harder into the wall, squeezing my eyes shut, praying to God this frenzied monster will pass by without noticing me.

  Men and women rush past, bawling, screaming, cursing the pope for stealing their lives. Roaring their demands that the devil should take his own back into hell, that they would never allow Rome to oppress them. What seemed to me an infantile joke earlier in the day is now a raging beast, possessing the town folk and driving them to destroy their own homes rather than listen to reason.

  Something buffets my arm, knocking me down onto wet stone, and only then as I lay winded on my back do I open my eyes to take in the full scope of the danger I have walked into. Boots stamp about my head as the mob surges onward, and I struggle to turn onto my front, pushing against the road with trembling arms in a futile effort to stand up against the tide.

  I am swept along by a sea of people. Probably no more than fifty but for me it is an army, dragging its prisoner and parading it through the streets until it is either crushed or discarded. I think of Fran’s warning. If I were to be condemned as a witch, this feverish march would be my funeral procession, my last terrible minutes before being tied to a burning pyre. For more than fifteen minutes I am battered, torn, and carried through a blur of houses, fire, and faces until a change as sudden as a wave crashing into a dam turns the direction of the rabble.

  An uncanny silence allows the noise of fire and falling debris to take precedent as the people turn about, and I wonder if the city guards have finally done something to quench the crowd’s aggression. But, no, something else has caused the change.

  The shape of a man catches my eye. Silhouetted in the doorway of the tallest building in the street, a small, hunched man watches the hostility as it sweeps past. Like a school of fish unaware that a shark has come to observe them but dimly aware of the danger, they keep their distance. The man is untouched, apparently unimpressed by the tumult, and whilst the flames lick at the buildings on either side, his residence remains unscathed, as though the fire itself is afraid of approaching him.

  But more than the bizarre aversion of the riot to turn upon him, something else is stranger still. The man himself is utterly wrong. I cannot explain it other than my instincts telling me that he must be a ghostly apparition that maintains a firmness of flesh and the command of a powerful presence. I think of the two men and their apprehension at revealing their employer’s name. I sense now that it was fear of the man himself—Keitus Vieta. The shadow in the doorway must be this same man. I know it deep in my spirit.

  Still thrust along by the crowd and away from that part of the street, I watch the hunched man turn and slink into the darkness of his home. Unless I act now, I may not be able to retrace my path back to this place. I scream in the faces of the people beside me. No longer willing to be caught in the flow of the mob, I claw against them, fighting for breath, thrusting my elbows on either side as if swimming uphill through a mountain of earth until eventually I fall, breathing hoarsely, against the wet oaken doors of Keitus Vieta’s home.

  With one last glance at the seething mass of bodies I escaped from, I bang my bloody knuckles against the door. “Mr. Vieta? Please … Please let me in.”

  FOUR

  The door swings open after I knock a second time, and stooping in the doorway is the small man, made to look even smaller by his hunched posture. Despite the sweat on my skin and the heat on my breath, my blood feels like ice when he greets me with a smile. He does not seem unfriendly, yet my instinct is to fear him. His unblinking eyes, blue like deep night, capture mine as he stares at me, and his voice, like soft wind in distant caverns, is colored by a strange accent, perhaps Prussian. “How may I help you?”

  “You are Kei”—an unwelcome gulp sticks in my throat—”Keitus Vieta? The artist?”

  His smile widens, and my knees judder as his thin flesh stretches across pointed cheekbones, making little veins beneath his skin wriggle like trapped worms. But I am no stranger to old age; Mama’s appearance was far worse, yet it never bothered me. Nevertheless, there is something dreadful about this old man—an ugliness that writhes deep beneath the pale surface—and something worse still, as though my senses are rebelling at his very presence. He should not be here. Yet here he is.

  But it is a far more dreadful thing that I have an inclination to judge him. Vieta has done nothing impolite nor improper, so I make my best effort to return his smile.

  “You know of me?” He takes my hand, then presses my knuckles to his dry lips. “It is a rare thing for old Keitus to be sought out. Especially by one so …
handsome.”

  Still he does not blink, and I am compelled to look away as an involuntary revulsion forces me to withdraw my hand. To look at anything but those intrusive eyes is a relief, and I gaze behind him and into his home. Beyond the door is a gloomy hallway colored by indigo luminescence from a room to the side. A lantern sits on a shelf, looking as though it has not been used for some time, and paintings I recognize by Federico Barocci, the famous artist staying near San Gimignano, hang from the walls. I find it unusual that Vieta chooses not to display his own works of art.

  “But where are my manners, Miss Mancini.” He reaches for my hand again, the fingers clammy like old meat as they curl around mine. “Please come in.”

  “I didn’t tell you my name,” I say, resisting his subtle pull on my hand. “How do you know it?”

  Vieta’s fingers tighten slightly. “Cleg and Malley returned with the body of Lena Mancini less than an hour ago. Since she had two sons and two daughters, only three of whom were eager to profit from her passing, I assume by your timely arrival that you are the fourth, and you were not aware of the transaction nor content with it. It was Francesca who received the money two days ago, so you must be her younger sister, Dominique.”

  I meet his eyes again, nod. “Is Mama … ?”

  “Inside?”

  I dare not look away and miss any hint of disclosure from his expression. A nervous tear blurs my vision as he studies me.

  “Why, yes.” He takes a step back, luring me through the door. “I have not yet had the opportunity to—”

  “Mama deserves a proper burial, Mr. Vieta. I am sure you can appreciate that. You must have known the passing of loved ones.” I offer a timid smile as I glance at the floor, ashamed of the brash way I interrupted him. But the heat of the crowd is still on my skin, and the pain of Mama’s passing presses its urgency upon me. Still, there is never an excuse for such impertinence.

  Keitus returns my smile, closes the door behind me. “I have no wish to distress anyone. If it pleases you, I will arrange for my men to have the body sent to a priest, but I will of course, require the return of my payment.”

  How would I go about persuading Fran to do that? Perhaps I should find the money myself and not tell her that I came here. But how could I pay such a debt?

  “You seem ill at ease.” His gaze is on my hands as they knead each other. “Perhaps it would be best for you to wait here awhile at least until the riots have calmed. Please come inside and be seated. Would you like a drink?” He creeps into the room with the blue light, and after a moment of indecision, I follow.

  “I don’t wish to intrude—” I stop when I see inside.

  The dark blue glow radiates from a cane leaning against the wall closest to the door. The cane itself is a peculiarity with its curiously bright stone set in a gnarly claw, but it is nothing compared to the grotesque gallery on display before me.

  There is no furniture, only hideous sculptures fashioned from a mottled substance that looks like it has been tortured into distorted forms of the human body. Enlarged contortions, twisted mannequins with a metallic sheen that might be blood in a different light. Some of their faces have been crafted with such attention to detail that I can almost see the terror in their eyes. Limbs are perverted by impossible knots, extended to disproportionate lengths with joints and sinew skewed and swollen like reflections in a warped mirror.

  The room seems colder now that I have seen these horrors. And I am sure they are watching me.

  Keitus stands in an open doorway on the other side of the room. “Pay no attention to my eccentricities.”

  “Is this your … art?”

  “A gallery of sorts. It does not appeal to many, but one must find expression for the workings of one’s heart, yes?”

  I glance at the sculptures, preferring even them to his bulging stare. I am sure there are people who can appreciate Mr. Vieta’s work—such delicate weavings in the textures and harmonious curves in their posture—but I cannot move myself to enjoy such a mockery of God’s creation. “Do you sell many of these … ?”

  “Alas, no, but I have no concerns. I have no shortage of coin and these”—he motions a withered hand—”are merely a creative outlet born from a greater passion of mine. They are the residue of another purpose.”

  “Another purpose?”

  “Indeed, but you need not know of that. Come through. I have a little brandy to set you at ease, my dear.” Keitus disappears into another hallway beyond the door.

  I weave my way between the effigies, fearing an unexpected touch or a sudden rush of cold breath from their gaping mouths as I pass, but I reach the other side with no incident and chide myself for thinking so darkly. With faltering breath, I follow Keitus Vieta into another room, trying to dismiss my expectations of seeing a bloody torture chamber through the next door, and finding, to my relief, a much more pleasant place.

  At first glance the room appears normal—a long center table with ten walnut chairs surrounding it, burgundy walls, tall bookcases, a large fireplace, and an array of display cabinets. But still my senses sharpen with the promise of danger. The light is too dim; the air is stale and carrying the bitter stench of something like ammonia.

  “Brandy.” Keitus sets a small glass on the table and pulls out a chair for me.

  “Thank you.” And I sit down, still avoiding his gaze.

  “At the door you expressed a wish for your mama to have a proper burial. Do you still wish this?”

  “More than anything.” I force myself to look at him, praying my trepidation will fade, but it does not. “How much did you pay my sister for Mama … Mama’s body?”

  “Twenty florin.”

  I try not to let my disappointment show, but a twitch in his lip tells me he sees something in my expression. “Too much for you?”

  “It may be difficult. I—”

  He lifts a hand to silence me. “Perhaps an alternative payment can be made other than coinage.”

  “I would gladly give you anything.”

  Keitus smiles, and once more I am struck by how wrong this man feels. A sip of the brandy causes my stomach to lurch with sudden fright. How could I trust this man? Anything could be in that glass. But again I judge harshly for no other reason than unfounded fear.

  “An object,” he says, moving closer. “It need not be valuable. I need something your mama used very soon before she passed on. A glass she drank from perhaps or a hairbrush used this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “I hoped for some item of her clothing to give me what I need, but all of it is too … weak. I need something stronger.”

  “Stronger? I don’t understand.”

  Keitus pulls out a chair next to mine, sits in it, and gazes at me a little too intently. “You recall your childhood?”

  “Of course.”

  “And did you ever play as a child?”

  “I used to play with my brothers.”

  “And what did you play?”

  I close my eyes, almost ashamed at the memory. Ashamed yet aware that it was also the innocence of youth. “We used to play Pass the Plague.”

  “I see.”

  “Arrigo always won. We used to run through the streets and into the fields behind Baggio’s farm—Baggio always shouted at us on the way past, but he was too fat to chase us.” I pause, allowing a moment of sentimentality to soften my uneasiness.

  “I loved to hide among the trees where they couldn’t find me, but there was an old oak tree Arrigo especially liked. It died years ago and the inside was hollow, so he would always hide inside it until I was caught.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven or eight, I think.”

  “You didn’t play when you were nine?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you remember the last time you played that game?”

  I think for a few seconds, sifting through snippets of memory—Fran on her back laughing loudly, Livio running from the woods screaming abo
ut a spider that had crawled into his hair, my grazed knee when I fell in the road. Fond memories and regretful memories mix in my mind, filling me with dreamy nostalgia. “No, I don’t think I can.”

  “But there was, wasn’t there, Dominique?” His eyes bulge again. “One day you played that game for the very last time. You had no knowledge that it would be the final game, but it was.”

  I take another sip of brandy. “I suppose so.”

  “For all things there is a last time. To all things an end.”

  I feel my pulse quicken. “Yes.”

  “And between all things there is an exchange of power and will.” His words grow quieter and slower. “When the candle burns, it gives light. When the heart wills, the body acts. When the crow calls, the worm flees. With all things in this world there is cause and there is effect. But what if … the effect is denied? What if the exchange is broken?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Keitus’s smile fades, and for the first time he blinks and looks away. “Powers are released, and unless they are harnessed, they flutter away. The powers will move, wander until dissolution.” His gnarled fingers claw the air. “Death is the greatest severance. There is so much power in the human will. So much power wasted, so many intentions left unfulfilled.”

  “But when people die their souls go to be with the Lord or with Satan. Is that not the truth?”

  “I am not speaking of the soul.”

  “Then what?”

  “When your mother died, the bond between cause and effect was broken. Those feelings and will of thought that were so strong in her mind retreated into personal objects she connected with immediately before her death. The last vessel she drank from, the last book she touched, the cloth she patted against her forehead for the last time—all become unwilling containers of an effect unfulfilled, a power harnessed for a short while.”

  “You talk of unknown powers. Things that sound like witchcraft,” I say. “You are a witch!”