The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Muezzin is a title not a name, but I suppose it will do,” Rebecca replied, and she began to recite a text that the spirit would recognize and heed. Such literary knowledge was particular to Rebecca, and not strictly a required part of the ritual, but she had found it useful in commanding spirits’ attention and respect. “‘Alike for those who for Today prepare, and those that after some Tomorrow stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There.’”

  The transparent, skeletal form gave a jolting movement in response.

  “Nicely done, Rebecca, what was that? And what did you mean, a title not a name?” Elijah was flipping through the Bible in the priest’s hands.

  “In life, this spirit was a muezzin, calling all men of Muslim faith to prayer,” Rebecca clarified. “But I sense it began to denounce Allah for his mercy and peace, turning away from faith and from him. No, it will not disperse quietly. I don’t know that anything will—” Rebecca suddenly whimpered, overwhelmed by the helplessness the spirit hoped to foist upon them.

  Michael stepped forward to dispel the dread, kissing her gently upon the forehead. Her face relaxing, she gave him thanks.

  Rebecca then repeated the verse pulled from The Rubaiyat, recently translated by an Englishman and indeed perfect for the occasion. The muezzin’s spirit moved in Emily, as if trying to respond: a few gurgling sounds were transferred from the passion of the spirit to the numb lips of the child. The sounds resembled actual words, a distant tongue. Then, sensing it could not use the child’s mouth as it wished, the spectre shifted out of her face and strained a ghastly head away from Emily’s body. Its unnatural mouth contorted in spasms.

  “It speaks,” Jane noted ruefully.

  It was a particular nuisance of The Grand Work that The Guard was granted a modicum of control over troubled spirits, but no direct communication. They could hear the occasional murmur, but could not always understand.

  “Regardless of it knowing my translation of The Rubaiyat, I cannot speak its language,” Rebecca spat. “Why is one of us not a translator, Alexi, for the tiny bits we can hear? Though for that matter, why should we need one? Alexi, why are we mediating spirits from the East? Since when do we traffic in international trade?”

  “Yes, Alexi,” Jane piped up. “Nonnative spirits have increased dramatically. Eight within recent months have traversed the whole of the Atlantic and more to rattle our isle. That damned American war alone will have us reeling until we die. And every year it grows worse.”

  “I suppose it could be a sign,” Alexi replied. His voice was quiet.

  Rebecca stopped and stared. “You mean, a sign?”

  Emily began mumbling. The spirit was contracting and wrestling more fiercely against her face, desperate to win the child’s mouth.

  “Sh…she…she’s coming,” Emily murmured. “She’s coming!” Then suddenly: “SHE IS COMING!”

  Everyone gasped. Jane held Emily down as the child shook, and Alexi bound the spirit tighter with violent swipes of his hand and flame.

  “You don’t suppose Emily means Prophecy is coming…does she?” Michael asked, surprised.

  The group stared, apprehensive. They’d begun to think it just a dream, a hallucination they’d all shared, regardless of any other proof they had of the night. It had been so many years since that incredible woman told them such improbable tales in their chapel, and they weren’t quite sure what to believe anymore. Though, they could not doubt The Grand Work which they now performed.

  Alexi set his jaw. “I will believe nothing until I see the foretold signs, and I urge you to do the same. Until then, words are just words. Remember to beware of false prophets.” From his tone, the matter was clearly closed to further discussion.

  “Bind with us, Alexi. It gathers vehemence,” Michael warned, reaching out his hand.

  Elijah whispered to the parents and priest, and those three continued to stare blankly at Josephine’s painting. The Guard joined hands in a circle around the bed.

  Emily’s arms flew out, rigid again at her side. There came a horrible crunching noise from her hands—bones break-ing—and the child screamed. Jane set her jaw and disengaged from the circle, taking the child’s damaged flesh in hers, bestowing a misty sphere of glowing light upon each fingertip; then she again joined the circle.

  “Hold on, Emily, dear heart, this will be over soon.”

  “Cantus of the Eviscerate,” Alexi proclaimed, and magnificence coursed through him, making him a brilliant, powerful conduit. The Guard began to chant something low and lovely that formed in the air like particles of heaven. It was full of music, as if accompanied by an orchestra of a thousand, yet barely rang louder than a whisper. They were the simple words of their private, ancient order, words which Emily’s possessor hated.

  The blue flames wound tighter and tighter on their own, sinews binding the spirit without Alexi’s conducting. The spectre opened its jaws as if howling. Emily manifested the nightmarish sound, making it twice as horrible.

  The child’s skin became brittle. Hairline fissures, like the cracking of a porcelain doll, began to spread across her arms and legs. Blood, thickened by possession and steeped in a glowing grey light, slowly dribbled up through her splitting flesh. Jane tried to counteract this veinlike spread across the child’s body, but the wounds held no parley.

  Intense beams of grey light shot from the cracks in Emily’s skin and a strange mist began to pour from all orifices in her face. The vapour clung outside the girl’s body, growing into a shuddering human form that curled into the fetal position, cowering as she lay sobbing.

  “Emily, look to the wall, to your angel, sweet child,” Josephine urged.

  The parasitic vapours next wrapped around the child’s neck, cursing her for the accessible soul that drew the spirit in, then imprisoned it with the righteous fear that was ultimately the body’s savior: Emily’s unspoiled heart would rather let the beast destroy her than turn violence upon others. The Guard wasn’t always so fortunate. Weaker subjects could always be found and driven to unspeakable things. London’s mysterious Ripper was likely evidence enough of such horror.

  The cantus reached its climax, an unyielding “Shhhh” in which The Guard released their clasped hands and placed a finger to their mouths, and the intruder burst apart like ashes in a gust of wind. It blinked out, leaving behind only a tendril of mist.

  Emily lay silent. Her bloodshot eyes were fixed to the painting across the room, and she looked as ghastly as ever.

  Jane sat by the child’s side and began to sing a lullaby, brushing hair from the girl’s face with a glowing hand. She placed illuminated fingertips on each of Emily’s hands, and the glow spread. The blood that had risen to the surface retreated again, and the child’s flesh regained the smooth perfection of youth. The tiny spheres of ivory light that had been left floating above Emily’s mending fingers merged into a larger ball of light that returned to Jane’s abdomen. A shiver worked up the Irishwoman’s spine as the power reentered her.

  Michael scooped Jane into a warm embrace, softly murmuring what an amazing job she’d done. Josephine bent, whispering a French benediction upon Emily’s forehead. The child responded by falling into a comatose slumber. Alexi’s shoulders fell, and he moved to lean against the wall, rubbing his temples.

  Michael moved next to gather Rebecca in his arms; then, with a contented giggle, he gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. Rebecca made a face and batted her eyelashes at him. Michael’s giggle turned into his very special laugh—a necessary part of the night. The laugh was contagious. All six now laughed loudly and openly, and the dark energy that had permeated the room was banished. The room, and each soul within it, was cleansed.

  The mesmerized priest’s fingers closed around his Bible, his eyes vacant as Elijah sent him out the bedroom door with a pat on the back. Elijah then patted the parents, who drifted off, dazed, to their respective bedchambers. In the morning the trio would remember nothing.

>   Rebecca finished her notes before moving toward Alexi. She carefully parted a lock of black hair on his damp forehead and kissed his cheek, then forced herself to retreat. Alexi’s lips twisted into a weary smile as his eyes flickered across her, but the expression faded as he looked out the window with a melancholy stare. Such extraordinary circumstances never failed to stir up emotion. Tears rolled down Josephine’s smooth cheeks, and she made no effort to stop them.

  Alexi straightened into his typical, formidable presence. “Well done, my compatriots.”

  “Time for a drink!” Elijah declared, his fist high in the air. “To Café La Belle et La Bête!”

  Everyone filed out of the building and into the night.

  Alexi, exhausted, took one final moment to contemplate an alternate history where he might have become a renowned scientist instead of an academic who chased ghosts. But The Grand Work had its own agenda, and his mortal desires were in no way considered. Prophecy suggested, of course, that someday his empty heart would be warmed and refreshed, but until he could be sure, until she came forward and his divine goddess could again speak to him, everything, including Alexi, was holding its breath—and choking on it. A little girl on Fleet Street might be safe for the moment, but the rest of London was not.

  Still…she was coming, wasn’t she? She’d best show herself before the last of his hope died and he didn’t recognize her at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Percy woke with a terrible start, roused by nightmares of her first day of class. The dreams had climaxed with a hundred eyes that bored so deeply that her skin peeled away piece by piece, leaving only bones beneath as she sat at a classroom table. A single bell struck softly somewhere above: it was only Sunday.

  She dressed and left her chambers, entered Promethe Hall, following a small stream of people—and an equal number of spirits—to the school chapel. Thankfully the grey shadows of morning, together with the cover of her soft blue shawl, kept her from attracting attention; living or deceased, no Sunday morning penitent whispered, pointed or even stared at her.

  Percy would not have thought to find such a unique chapel within a Quaker school. The place seemed…alive. Rows of amber stained-glass angels burned with inner light. White pillars supported smooth, arched rafters, and made the tiny building appear larger than possible, as if a portion of heaven itself had been annexed by it. An elegant fresco, a white dove of peace, covered the dome above a modest altar dressed in white linen. To Percy’s delight, the shape of the bird’s outstretched wings, and the generous spread of light about its feathers, reminded her of the pendant she wore against her skin.

  The service was sprinkled with long, reflective silences for the benefit of meditation. It was peaceful, vastly different than elaborate Catholic rituals. Yet, oddly, something here felt like home.

  Leaving the chapel in a daze, Percy wandered back to her hall and sat in the shade of the front stairs. Listening to the splash of the fountain in the courtyard, she eventually found herself roused from her reverie by the anxious sound of a young lady struggling to say an English word. Behind her stood a pair, one of whom attempted to overcome a thick German accent. The other, a plump brunette, stared blankly.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t understand you,” snapped the brunette, and walked away.

  The German girl watched the other girl depart, baffled. Clad in an elegant, russet-coloured traveling dress, she put her pretty face into her hands. Her blonde hair, set in elaborate braids atop her head, shuddered as she began to cry.

  Percy rose with a hesitant smile. “Guten tag, Fräulein. Was ist seine Problem?”

  The young lady looked up with a priceless expression and turned to see who spoke. Percy expected the girl to gape, and was surprised when there came no reaction to her odd appearance.

  “Oh!” the girl exclaimed happily, and flew into a torrent of German, stating that she’d lost her room key, wasn’t sure of her hall assignment, what to do about it or with whom to speak.

  “Kommen Sie mit mir,” assured Percy, leading the way toward the headmistress’s office.

  “Danke! Danke!”

  “Bitte.” Percy smiled. “Ich heisse Percy. Percy Parker.”

  “Ich heisse Marianna Farelei! Forgive me, I try English. I need speak as much as I can to be better student, yet some words I always…vergesse. I’m especially bad when others are impatient.”

  “Well, I’m happy to assist, Marianna.”

  “Thank you so much…Percy. How happy I was to hear Deutsch!” The girl’s pleasure was obvious.

  “It must be overwhelming for you here in England,” Percy pointed out.

  “Ja, ja. How do you know to speak my language?”

  “I love all languages.” Percy smiled warmly. “I suppose you could say I collect them, and have since long before I came here.”

  “How interesting,” Marianna said. “Your previous place of study must have been very nice.”

  Percy paused. “I was raised in a convent. Eine Kirche.”

  “Ah.”

  Marianna had finally taken the time to consider Percy’s face. This prompted Percy to explain, “I was born with this terrible pallor. Forgive me if I frighten you.”

  “Frighten? No, I think it is lovely, your face. You are like a doll—I do not know the name…one of those that break if you drop them. I used to have one. She was my favourite.”

  However awkward, Marianna had chosen the perfect words. Percy smiled at the girl’s kindness. “What happened to your doll?”

  “She broke. I dropped her.” Marianna bit her lip. “I am sometimes very clumsy.”

  Percy giggled. Marianna stole a glance at her, then started to giggle, too.

  With one quick trip to the headmistress’s office, the two solved Marianna’s problem, facilitated by Percy’s translation whenever necessary. The girls then strolled back across the courtyard toward their dormitory.

  “What are the words on each building?” Marianna asked.

  “They are odd variants of Greek names. I’ve never seen them written quite like this.”

  “Greek names?”

  “Yes, tributes to Greek gods—like my name is.”

  “Yours? I do not remember a ‘Percy’ goddess.”

  Percy smiled. “It’s a pet name of sorts.”

  “Are you the same age as me?” Marianna asked, peering at her. “I cannot tell. You could be young, or much older, with that face.”

  “I am eighteen, older than most here. I was matriculated due to my…circumstances.”

  “Ah, I see. I am…” Marianna fought for an English number. “Fifteen.”

  “And how did you find Athens?” Percy doubted the German girl was sent away due to any oddness, like herself.

  Marianna shrugged. “I desire school, my parents did not and hoped I would change my mind if they applied far away, somewhere quiet like this. But I would have done anything to continue.” She smiled suddenly. “Of course, if they truly know what I wish to do…”

  “And what is that?” Percy prompted.

  “I would give my heart to be…eine Speilerin.”

  “An actress?” Percy repeated.

  “Ja, but my father would run me through with a sword!”

  Percy laughed then mused, “An actress. The only plays I have ever seen were Nativities at the abbey. I loved them, of course. They were magical. But I have read all of Shakespeare, and—”

  “Ich liebe Shakespeare!”

  “Good, then we’ll have much to quote each other, you and I!” Percy felt a rush of pleasure at having found a possible friend—a living friend—to share her time here.

  From behind her glasses, she squinted at the blue-grey sky and added, “I never knew my parents. I wonder about them, though, and imagine how it would be to look like everyone else. To consider dreams, and futures, like they do. Of course, were I to dream of the stage, I’d only be fit to play Hamlet’s ghost.” Percy sighed.

  Marianna’s eyes lit, and she exclaimed ex
citedly, “Or Ariel or Titania!”

  Percy grinned as she realized this was perfectly true.

  Inside, they reached their respective chamber doors, and Marianna said, “I must…settle in and write letters now. Percy, will you sit with me at first meal?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Percy replied. A sliver of desperation edged her words as she added, “I would like to consider you a friend. May I?”

  “Of course you are a friend! Why do you ask?” The German girl seemed surprised.

  Percy stared at the cobblestones. “I look strange, Marianna. I’m nothing like the others. If things are the same here…well, people will whisper and scoff, repulsed by the look of me. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and—”

  “I speak different. You do not…look at me strange when I talk. You help. And you think you look frightening?”

  Percy shrugged. “My skin, my eyes, my hair…No single aspect of me is normal.”

  “Your hair is white? Your eyes, too?” Marianna asked, peering closer.

  Percy nodded, wondering if she should take off her glasses.

  Marianna shrugged. “You are…pretty as a sculpture is pretty. Do not be ashamed,” she ordered.

  “I am grateful for your kindness.”

  “And I for yours,” Marianna replied.

  “Indeed. I shall see you soon.”

  “Yes, my friend. Good afternoon!”

  Percy returned to her room, spirit uplifted. She listened to greetings spoken loudly in the hallways, friends returning and catching up, and decided she was not yet brave enough to make any other forays toward interaction. She would leave such bravery for another day.

  On the edge of the Whisper-world, the shadows rang with the voice of Darkness. “What has the dog found in London?”

  His female servant sank onto the eternally cold stones, stretching out languidly, attempting to look inviting. The shadows didn’t move, and the woman scowled. “Only East End whores. Fitting, don’t you think? Isn’t that what she is—a whore?”

  The shadows grunted. There was a slow, methodical sound: footfalls, back and forth. “Whatever is left of that bird…I’ll burn him all over again.”