Mere coincidence? A time warp? Or, as Chloe has claimed, are certain desires and behaviors, even conversations, passed along in the DNA of a siren? Now it seems their passion was set in motion a century ago and informed by a mythology as old as the rocks.
While such synchronicity is hardly commonplace, is there any human glory or romance left in the equation? And this is not her only troubling insight.
Marlena recalls a period when her infatuating affair came to an abrupt halt, after Lila Drake made a rare appearance in Alta and told Harry she wanted a child. Harry's response was to flee, stranding both wife and mistress while languishing for months in Europe's cafe society, where he sipped absinthe and nursed a grudge against women in general. The only consideration keeping Marlena from flying to her lover was not knowing his exact whereabouts. She must have Harry, she thought, or she would die.
In the end, her husband gave her what she must have by expediting a deal with Pioneer Architectural Designs' biggest client. Over the phone, Coddie and Harry made a gentlemen's agreement. Half of her PAD time would be contracted to Drake Enterprises in her new role as Consulting Director for Special Events; she would be set up in her own suite at the hotel and resume her shuttle between San Francisco and Alta.
Now she wonders whether her husband was doing her a favor, or whether he was bowing to a siren's invincible will. At the time, she had exulted, believing she had won the contest with Lila Drake. But exactly what does she have to show for her victory?
The lingerie pile in her private closet has grown deeper. But has the human intimacy increased? Now there is a painful question. Also, getting her way has cost Marlena the friendship of her husband, an admired colleague and a man she loves like a brother. Finally, some of the luster on her accomplishments has been tarnished by the affair.
Face it, Marlena. What do you see?
Marlena slumps back and takes several deep breaths.
“Let's see if I have the message correct so far. I am a direct descendant of a woman who tonight speaks to me from beyond the grave, one who in life was a siren in human form. Whether or not I have her powers remains to be seen, but I am destined to repeat her mistakes. Therefore, I am not the person I have imagined myself to be.”
You get an A, for almost right.
“Sing, sirens. I am ready for the lesson to continue. Wild horses could not drag me away.”
Marlena nods at the window, where the curtains ripple in a graceful response. Chloe smiles, gratified the young siren has managed to absorb some aspects of her true nature and peculiar situation without insulting the ghost. She once again takes up the thread of her story…
Chapter Nine
The Curse
October 28, 1900
Alta, Wyoming
On the Sunday morning after First Fire Night, the three hamlets of the northeast district were slower to rise than usual. Jolting awake to the crowing of roosters, townspeople rubbed their eyes and pulled their children out of bed. Having been up late the night before, the children objected loudly, were given a cuff on the ears, and then hurried into their Sunday church-going clothes.
One of Alta’s idiosyncrasies was that its saloon and its church were located within a stone’s throw of each other. Certainly the native sons and daughters lying in graves near the church did not mind the noise arising from the neighboring inn. Neither were the customers of the Plush Horse particularly concerned by the nearby presence of the dead. Indeed, it was common for one of the wags to raise a toast “to our dearly departed brethren. May they get more in heaven than the poor devils got here.”
Such badinage did not sit well with Widow Brown, however, who believed God spoke directly to her. She boycotted the inn and frowned upon its customers.
Normally Cassandra chose not to go to church, partly in loyalty to Curly but also because she found the reading of scriptures boring and unenlightening. On October 28, however, Cassandra decided to go to church with her grandfather. He was surprised, but as usual he did not pry into her motivation.
The stunning young woman who was the focus of all eyes sat down in the first row of the unadorned church. She bowed her head, clasped her gloved hands, and thought of the one thing she wanted most. Domesticity was not, she was sure, what fate had in store for her, or a safe, solitary life with her grandfather. Cassandra's prayer, if that is what it was, ran something like this: “O Mother Earth, grant me a great love. And by the way, please get me out of this terrible place.”
When the services were over, she was surprised to find her way was blocked when she stepped out into the aisle. Standing there with folded arms was Widow Brown, who looked as if she might spit in her eye. The beauty with the flaming red-gold hair and the rheumy, heavy-set matron locked eyes, with the congregation looking from one to the other.
The Widow was exhausted, having been up all night. She felt she had a very good reason to object to the scarlet woman being in church. Cassandra's carnal presence was a mark of sheer blasphemy that would bring the wrath of the Lord down on all, including the new baby in the Brown family who was about to be baptized. Widow Brown could not afford any chances of the Lord’s wrath being piqued. She had heard a story last night from an innocent witness of this woman's evil powers. The story was reverberating in her pipes like a gong, and the Widow felt compelled to speak out.
She did so now.
“Last evening, when Curly Drake and Clare Brighton should have been celebrating their nuptials, you were meeting clandestinely with her bridegroom, vixen. Know you all, that this is Satan's work.”
What WidowBrown knew came from the neighbor lad's midnight story. Horatio had confirmed the Widow's darkest suspicions, which had begun as soon as she laid eyes on Cassandra. A Salem witch was in the Vye lineage; Captain Vye had admitted as much. If the red-haired sorceress could cast a spell so strong as to lure a bridegroom away on his wedding night, there was no telling what other harm she might do.
Obsessed with forestalling any danger to her family, the Widow had taken precautions. Before dawn broke she put a hex on the siren, using a soap doll, as she had been taught by a Lakota Sioux shaman whom she had consulted soon after Cassandra came to town.
There was no hexing, said the shaman, that was powerful enough to undo a siren's ability to fascinate her prey, nor could any hexing harm the creature herself. But there was a way to scare her off by afflicting the siren with a curse that would play on her own powers to do evil. The curse would sentence ordinary humans who became obsessed with the siren to untimely deaths, despite any good intention the siren herself might have of sparing them. In this way, over time, the siren line would fail to propagate and would be wiped out.
Now she was doubly glad she had consulted the shaman, for here was the redheaded siren parading herself through the house of the Lord!
“See the brazen whore of Satan, now acting out hypocritical piety in our church! She passed the holy baptismal fount. The water was surely fouled, endangering the soul of my granddaughter. Now, under the eyes of the Lord, I, Widow Brown, will show Him the loyalty of His servant. I publicly expose Cassandra Vye as a force for evil and death.”
She hissed, spraying spittle from her thick lips. “Hus-s-s-y, I know how to defend the natives against your wickedness. Thou art accursed, Satan's whore. Be gone, witch! I predict four deaths will be on your head, before the second decade of the new century has ended. All of you beware, lest the count begins here!”
Cassandra wiped her face with her gloved hand. Captain Vye, pushing forward, grabbed his granddaughter out of the Widow's reach. Her face was dead white, and her topaz cat’s eyes blazed like coals as she proudly marched down the aisle.
While the churchgoers gathered outside gawked and whispered, Cassandra stopped at the church door. She flung off her bonnet and let her shimmering mane of fiery-gold curls blow with the wind. Without a word, she passed the townspeople and got into the buggy. Her thoughts were molten.
“No crazy hag is going to determine my fate. I will h
ave my desires fulfilled! Damn the natives' opinions of me, and damn Widow Brown's curse.”
So there you have it, Marlena, the origin of the family curse: a potent mixture of the place, the time, and the power of ignorant human superstition to tap into unknown forces at the core of the universe.
At the time, I thought the Widow's hexing of me merely an inconvenience and an embarrassment. I was very angry, but afterward I reasoned that surely the village would regard her, not me, as the evil witch.
It would take a long series of events, most of which seemed trivial at the time, to convince me of the power of the curse she had laid on me.
Chapter Ten
A Buffalo
November 1, 1900
Alta, Wyoming
Besides Widow Brown, there was another native who was sure Clare's bridegroom was up to no good.
Caleb Scattergood, Clare's self-appointed knight in shining armor (and a disappointed suitor for Miss Brighton's hand), was alerted to possible trouble on First Fire Night, when Horatio Nelson, in wandering home in the dark, took refuge in his wagon. The frightened and tired boy spilled to the coal miner what he had seen: his mistress and the innkeeper deep in conversation, outlined in the light of the bonfire at Mill's Creek.
Now, Widow Brown's reaction to Horatio's story was to hex the evil woman who was preventing the rightful nuptials. Caleb's was to focus attention on the wavering ways of the bridegroom. But, his daily life as a coal miner was not conducive to being a spy. To keep an eye on Drake for Clare, he would need to go into business for himself. It occurred to him he might re-open his father's old ice business.
The Indians say that while the cow runs away from an approaching storm, the buffalo charges directly at it and thus gets through the storm more quickly. The following week, the coal man became an ice man and, by metaphoric extension, a buffalo.
Monday, Caleb tendered his resignation to the mine operator in New Gillette, who was very sorry to see his best worker go. Tuesday, he negotiated a business loan on the strength of a handshake at the fledgling Farmers Bank. Wednesday, he exchanged his cart for a much larger wagon, suitable for venturing high up into the mountains and finding summer ice for harvesting. Thursday, when he drove his wagon into Alta and called on Widow Brighton, she was only too glad to become his first account for ice delivery. She also offered her former ranch-hand shelter in a herder's shed, at the far end of the Brighton Grange, to stay in when he was in town.
“Thank you kindly, ma'am. I will do so until I am on my feet.”
“It won't be long before you are a success, Caleb. I'm sure of that.”
As the Widow predicted, Caleb's ice business was thriving within a month. On a beautiful, sunny mid-November day, he finished calling on the list of new clients, which was growing by leaps and bounds. He sat outside his hut, a faint smile on his lips, but it was not his improved prospects that made him happy. He was reading Clare's letter to him, dated December 21, 1899.
“…I like and respect you very much, Caleb. I always put you near my cousin Nicholas in my admiration. But it wouldn't be right for me to keep you in suspense. I hope I will soon be married to Mr. Drake. My feelings on this page are naked as an Indian. I'll count on your honor I will never regret having confided in you. Your faithful friend, Miss Clare Brighton.”
Caleb reverently returned the letter to his jacket pocket and then he took the only pleasure he allowed himself in his abstemious life: he masturbated.
Afterward, he checked the placement of the sun in the western sky, put on his stoutest walking shoes, and set out in the direction of Hatter’s Field.
He had been going through this same ritual every evening for a week, prior to spying on the couple whose anti-social passion was thwarting his beloved's happiness. As the Brighton women were convinced Clare must have her wedding to keep the family's good name intact, dogged Caleb had no choice but to make sure she got just that. The agony of being Beauty's dog was not lost on him; he was in a glum mood as he descended the path from the Grange onto the roadway and moved along the long, flat portion of Hatter’s Field and then upward toward a glen that was near the Hat but secluded from view.
Hearing approaching voices, he bolted to the far side of the glen and hid, crouching between a holly bush and a rickety wooden well-house, where crude initials had been carved by lovers on the boards. That evening, because of the wind's direction, he could hear Cassandra and her lover perfectly. Drake was first to speak.
“If you knew why I have come, you would not have kept me waiting.”
“What has happened? Are you in some trouble?”
“Matters have come to a head with Clare. I must steer a clear course, and I wish to consult you.”
“Me? You must be mad!”
Cassandra's voice, when she next spoke, was haughty and cold. “Then marry the insipid fool for her fortune and be done with it. She is much more your type than I am.”
“You know that is untrue, damn you. I’m in a fix is all I’m trying to tell you.”
“Where is she?”
“To avoid gossip, at the Grange, and I am blamed for her seclusion. Now the old bitch is demanding the wedding take place before her son returns at Thanksgiving. She is putting pressure on me by—well, never mind about that.”
“Ha! So the widow's planning a family feast, and you are to be the carved turkey. What do you want me to do about it?”
There was a pause, then Cassandra began again. “You come here grinding on Clare's reputation. But, if you really cared about her, you wouldn’t be talking with me. You do love me best, don’t you? Admit it!”
“I'll admit this much: I never want to lose you, even if the going gets rough.”
“I agree. I would hate for love’s course to always be smooth.”
“No fear of that,” he groaned.
“What clear course were you speaking of earlier, Curly?”
“Frailty, thy name is woman! Why, taking you away from this hellhole, of course. Eloping and marrying. We spoke of it before.”
“But why the rush? I told you I would give you my answer at Thanksgiving. I need more time to consider. I had not thought of marrying anyone.”
“Well, the situation is different now.”
“Explain how.”
“If I do, it will only irritate you.”
“But I must know the reason. What has changed?”
“Not my passion for you, if that is what you think.”
“I think no such thing. But why are you acting like a beaten dog?”
“If I am, I’m not aware of it. But no matter. How did Shakespeare say it? All’s well that ends well. Widow Brighton—but hang her. Her shenanigans are nothing to me, and certainly they are nothing new.”
“Ah, I might have guessed the Brighton women were involved. Tell me what has been said, truthfully. I don’t like your holding back.”
“Nothing, really. Only the Widow says she wants me to declare myself broken off with Clare. It seems someone else is anxious to be her husband. Now the Widow don’t need me, she feels free to spit in my face. How I hate that woman!”
The silence lengthened. Cassandra spoke in a low tone: “They have the upper hand. You are a bridegroom who is no longer needed.”
“But I haven’t even spoken with the young woman I am being asked to renounce!”
“You are upset by this turn of events.”
“I deny it. But even if you're right, what difference does it make?”
“What difference? Suddenly you cannot have Clare, so you make unreasonable demands on me. Am I the woman whose love you want so passionately you would deny yourself a secure future and reputation? Or am I a party of convenience, a second prize you carry off while licking your wounds? And to Scotland, of all places!”
“For the love of God, Cassie, how you twist things around!”
“Me? Haven’t you been twisting two women around your little finger and enjoying every minute of it? And now you find you have overplayed your hand,
you expect me to drop everything and run off with you! My mother married in a rush, and she came to a sad end.”
“But lass, I proposed the same thing yesterday, and even before that, weeks ago. I was eager to run off with you before I found anything out about Clare's other suitor. You are the one who has been dragging your feet lately. What has changed?”
She was silent.
“My own darling,” said Drake, “will you agree to go with me right now and marry me? Say yes.”
“I don’t know. Scotland, or somewhere in Europe, what are we talking about here? If it could be San Francisco or Saratoga, instead of a foreign country, then surely I would go with you. Well, I will think it over. It is too great a change to decide offhand. I wish I hated this place less, or loved you more. Then it would be easier to decide.”
“A month ago, you loved me enough to go anywhere with me.”
“A month ago, you loved Clare enough to marry her. The only change is you no longer can get her with a snap of your fingers.”
“Not true. The Widow is trying to railroad me into moving faster and getting her out of a pinch. Come on, lass, don’t be difficult. If you don’t agree to go with me, and quickly, I will go and leave you both behind.”
“Oh, threats now. If you only knew the trouble I see ahead for us…”
After that, the wind changed, and Caleb was only able to hear bits and pieces of their conversation until the wind veered back again. By then the debate had devolved into passionate sex. When the guttural sounds of their lovemaking reached Caleb, he could not help himself. He unbuttoned the flap on his trousers and stroked his engorged penis as he listened. Finally they were finished, and so was he.
Drake said: “No later than the night before Thanksgiving, Cassandra, for your answer. I will signal with stones at your window.”
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