The Journal of Bloody Mary Jane: My Florida Idyll, Episode 1
Page 5
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Well. This was very interesting, and, of course, quite impossible. I recognized both of the names and I knew that the men they had belonged to were long dead. I could not guess at the purpose of this odd masquerade, but I felt I had no choice but to play along.
"I am Mary Jane Gallows," I said, reclaiming my hand before "Mather" could raise it to his lips, "and your name is not unknown to me. Were your parents admirers of the original?"
"I am the original," he said flatly.
"I see. Then I must say I am surprised to find you here-- or anywhere, for that matter."
The creature before me chuckled, a sound like unseen vermin rooting in a pile of dead leaves. He led me to a seat and hobbled back to the chair behind his desk.
"The report of my death," he said, "was a necessary part of the official historical chronicle, but it was a fabrication. It had to be done, you see, to keep secret the existence of this place. I have lived a very long time, my dear, and I have seen much. I have learned and understood things that are beyond the comprehension of men who are limited to their Biblical three score and ten years upon this earth."
"Most intriguing," I said. "It is your contention, then, that you are the same Cotton Mather who was involved in the Salem witch trials in 1692?"
He winced and said, "Those accursed trials! They were a small part of my life, but they seem to be all anybody remembers about me, as though my other accomplishments were irrelevant. History has yoked me to that debacle forever."
He sounded powerfully aggrieved. It was at that moment that I began to doubt the doubts I had about his identity. His response was not what I would have expected from an imposter. A bruised ego is almost impossible to feign on behalf of someone else.
"It raises a question in my mind," I said. "Those trials took place exactly two hundred years ago, I believe. Admittedly, I have never met a man who was more than 200 years old, so I cannot speak from experience. But, while I would not describe your appearance as youthful, you seem more robust than I would imagine such an individual to be."
The man gave me a thin, brittle smile that did not suit his face.
"Yes. That is all down to the secret of this place that you have stumbled upon. Whether it was good fortune or ill on your part remains to be seen."
"My goodness," I said mildly. "Is that a veiled threat, sir?"
"Not veiled at all, young lady," he said. "I thought I made myself quite clear. I am trying to decide whether or not I ought to kill you."
I narrowed my eyes at him. He met my gaze for three seconds, then looked away. I wondered what he imagined he had seen. If we were to be antagonists, I felt confident that I should have the upper hand. I knew what I was dealing with: either a delusional old lunatic or a ghastly wreck of a man who had somehow managed to dramatically prolong his life. He, on the other hand, had no idea what sort of a creature had wandered into his wretched domain. I myself barely knew what I was or what I was capable of.
"If you are not a fool," I remarked, "I trust that you will see the wisdom in treading lightly with one whose limits are unknown to you. The real question here is whether or not you are capable of killing me, and what I might do to you if you tried."
He stared at me for a very long time. I met his gaze, but this time my eyes had no discernible affect on him. I got the impression that he was looking at something outside the range of normal vision. When he spoke again, it startled me.
"You're not human, are you?" he said. "You wear a human shape, but you are something else."
I laughed. "You chided your friend for his poor manners," I said, "and then proceeded to threaten my life. Now you add insult to the hypothetical injury."
The look in his eyes had changed, and I sensed that he was once again seeing me in the flesh, as it were. He regarded me with a wariness that was just this side of fear. I glanced over at Ponce de Leon, who stood rooted on the spot he had taken up after entering the room. He was rigid, motionless, apparently lifeless. His eyes were glassy and, at that moment, there seemed to be absolutely nothing behind them.
"No, not an insult," said Mather. "I see what I see. There is something about you. Something... not so much evil as primal. Something very dangerous, I think. And yet... I sense conflict. There is evil in you, but it is not unchallenged. You have not capitulated to it. You may remain here, alive, until I get to the bottom of this."
I was somewhat amused by his presumption, and powerfully intrigued by his words. His assessment was quite accurate, I had to admit. Did this creature have knowledge that might be of use to me? I decided that I must find out.
"Very well," I said graciously. "I accept your invitation, though it is couched in rather offensive terms. Perhaps whatever insight you possess can clear up one or two small matters for me, and neither of us will be obliged to try to kill the other. How do you wish to proceed?"
"It is getting rather late," he said. "I shall require some rest before I address whatever issues you have brought here with you. Perhaps you could do with some sleep yourself, and possibly a bite to eat."
I merely nodded and smiled at him, an expression of serenity and unconcern on my face. It was not feigned. I had no fear of this enigmatic ghoul and his strange pronouncements. But he was wary of me, thought not exactly fearful, so I reckoned I had a slight advantage.
"Juan!" Mather said sharply, jarring the other man from the curious torpor into which he had fallen. "Please escort this young woman to the guest house and see that she is comfortable. See to her comfort, Juan, and absolutely nothing else. Do I make myself clear? Good. We will take up this matter again in the morning. Good night, Miss."
Ponce de Leon had once more rejoined the world, to a limited extent; he was sluggish and silent as I followed him out of the Council Hall, leaving Cotton Mather at his desk.
As I followed my guide through the compound, I saw no evidence of other inhabitants. The small wooden houses we passed were dark and silent, doors closed and windows shuttered. The structures were inhabited, I had no doubt, but there was no joy or comfort here. If this was somebody's idea of a utopia, it was a most curious one.
On my way to this odd place, I had sensed unseen presences all around me. But as I walked through the compound with de Leon, it seemed that this sense was blunted here, all but completely absent, as though I had entered some sort of "dead zone." Were my perceptions affected, or did those presences avoid this area? I did sense something odd within this village, but it was less distinct and less formidable than the presences. What I sensed here was illness, madness, fear, and misplaced faith.
We ended up on the very edge of the settlement, close to the woods. Ponce de Leon gestured to a small log cabin that huddled by itself a few yards from the tree line, solitary and forlorn.
"Here are your accommodations, Senorita," he said dully. "This house is kept vacant for the few visitors that we have from time to time. The last one was eleven years ago. However, the linen on the bed is changed once a month, for one simply never knows. You will not be bothered by anybody tonight. You will not be locked in, and and there is nothing to prevent you from wandering about within the precincts of our settlement, but you will not be able to leave this village, and I urge you to go straight to bed and not to stir. Sleep is the best thing for you now, Senorita Mary Jane. There are things in the night that should not be seen by young ladies-- or perhaps it is the other way around. Would you care for a bite of supper before you retire?"
"That will not be necessary," I said, as I pushed open the door and stepped into the cabin. "And I have no intention of trying to leave here, I assure you."
I had not forgotten that I was responsible for two recent murders and was most likely the object of a search by the police.
"Very well," said my guide. "Rest now, Miss. Tomorrow, we shall decide what to do. Good night."
Ponce de Leon wandered back in the direction from which we had come. His strange lassitude was more pronounced now. He barely lifted his feet from the
ground as he shuffled off into the night.
I closed the door and examined my surroundings. It was pitch black in there, but that did not bother me, as I could see in the dark as well as I could in broad daylight. I would describe the scene, but for the fact that there was virtually nothing to describe. The single room was not much larger than a walk-in closet, and it contained nothing but a bed made of rough hewn wood, with a mattress of sorts across the top. The yellowed linen did look-- and smell-- clean. Next to the bed was a rickety wooden chair that I would not have risked sitting upon. An oil lamp and a thick book sat atop the small table that was the third and final bit of furniture in the room.
I have no need of sleep, and there was nothing in the spare cabin with which I could occupy myself. The book was an ancient Bible, musty and brittle with age, and I had no use for it at all. The answers I sought would not be found there.
Removing my jacket and shoes, I stretched out on the mattress and lay staring up at the ceiling. As I say, I had never in my short life been asleep, and I wondered if I was even capable of it. Certainly, though I did not require food, I was capable of eating and enjoying it. Could I perhaps force my way into the arms of Morpheus? I knew than an ordinary human being spent approximately one third of his life sleeping. It might be interesting to see what all the fuss was about.
I closed my eyes and stilled the workings of my mind as best I could. After a time, I began to see small flashes of light, very faint, as though something on the insides of my eyelids was sending out very weak signals. My conscious awareness of my body and my surroundings gradually faded and finally ceased altogether. This state seemed to approximate what little I knew of the Buddhist concept of Nirvana. However, I achieved no enlightenment-- nothing but a fragile and tenuous sense of peace. The murders I had done crossed my mind, bringing with them neither anguish nor glee. After a time, they crept away, and were replaced by unfamiliar sights and sounds.
I saw a man step from the doorway of a tiny, squalid flat in the heart of a dark, noisome slum. Before he went away, he glanced back into the room at the figure of a young woman who lay supine on a bed. She had been torn to bits, and the bed linen was soaked through with her blood. The man smiled, for he found this ghastly scene deeply satisfying. He closed the door and reached through a broken window to fasten the lock from the inside, then he casually walked away as though he hadn't a care in the world. The man was dressed in black with a cloak and a top hat. I could not see his face. After he had traversed half a block he stopped and turned back around. Though his eyes were not visible, I knew he was looking at me.
"I have not abandoned you," he said, "but I have a great deal of work to do. That thing in the room there was the end of the beginning. I go now to engineer the beginning of the end. When my work reaches a certain point, and the world stands on the brink of a new era-- my era-- I will find you. Until then, you must just be yourself-- whatever that is. I cannot tell you."
The scene faded away and I once again felt myself lying on the bed, in much the same position as the young woman in my vision. I was relieved to note that my body, unlike hers, was intact. I thought of her and felt certain that I knew her and that I always had. I knew her face and I knew her name.
The man had, of course, been my father. I knew who he was and what he had done, but had never before heard from him directly-- if what I had just experienced was real, which I believed it was. I had imagined that he, like Lizzie Borden, had lost interest in me once my primary task had been completed. I wondered at the meaning behind his cryptic pronouncements.
I attempted to reenter the state from which I had just emerged, but had no success. I remained still and quiet, but the strange sensations did not come.
I lay there for I know not how long before something touched my awareness. At first, I thought I had succeeded in my endeavor, but soon saw that this was not the case. Whatever I sensed was present in the real world.
I heard nothing, but I became convinced that someone was calling to me. This call came from outside the little compound. I rose from the uncomfortable bed, put on my shoes, and stepped outside.
The compound was dark and silent, something carved out of dull and lifeless stone by an uninspired craftsman. The sky was awash with stars and a three-quarter moon hung almost directly overhead. I looked around and saw nothing untoward. I was about to go back inside when I heard a voice:
"Miss! I am over here! Please come closer so that we may speak."
The voice was thin and dry, with a British accent not unlike my father's. It came from somewhere in the woods behind my little cabin.
I was not afraid. I wondered if my father had decided to come to me now rather than making me wait for "the beginning of the end," whatever that signified. I walked around to the rear of the cabin and approached the perimeter of the woods.
I saw nobody, but that wasn't a surprise. Though I can see in the dark, I cannot see through solid objects. Whoever was there was likely concealed behind a tree. I felt something dark and cold in there, but was not troubled by it.
"Who is there?" I asked, stopping at the edge of the woods and leaning against a tree. "What do you want of me?"
"A bit of conversation," came the voice. "And a little help, too. I should like to speak with you face to face, but I cannot do so until you do something for me."
"And what would that something be?" I inquired politely, more than a little intrigued.
"Please look around to the other side of that tree you're leaning against. You will see a large cross there, as well as a placard with several peculiar symbols painted upon it. Please take them down and get rid of them. Then I may approach. I still won't be able to enter the compound, but I can come close enough to converse comfortably. Though you have no way of knowing this and no reason to believe it, I mean you no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"I'm not worried," I said. I located the objects my new acquaintance had spoken of, removed them from the tree and cast them aside. The moment this operation was completed, something emerged from behind a large tree and moved toward me, becoming visible in the light from the moon.
It was the figure of a man, rail thin and clad all in black, with a great white dome of a forehead and deep set, staring eyes. His ocular orbs were of a yellowish color and seemed to have very large pupils but no irises. They also appeared to glow faintly in the gloom. Perhaps, I thought, that was just a trick of the light, but I doubted it. I had the very strong sense that this thing before me may have been a man of sorts, but was not a human being.
"What sort of a demon are you?" I asked him.
"A very minor one, I fear," he said. "But I am ambitious. My name is James Moriarty and I am a vampire. Who and what are you?"
I was mildly surprised that his name was familiar to me, though I had never before heard or read it. It was a wisp of memory, or feeling, that I had inherited from my father-- a deep distaste that might easily have ripened into hatred. But I was my own creature and would judge Moriarty according to my own lights.
Disarmed by his frankness, I replied truthfully, "I am Mary Jane Gallows and I have no idea what I am. I am much younger than I look, and was not born of woman in the usual way. And I have been having the very devil of a time trying to decide what I ought to do with myself."
Moriarty seemed amused by this. His lips drew back into a ghastly smile, and I was treated to the sight of his large, crooked teeth. I could not help noticing that his canines were quite long and ended in sharp points-- evidence in support of his claim. Not that I had entertained any doubts. Cotton Mather was not the only one with the ability to spot the anomalies amongst human shaped creatures. Even if Moriarty's appearance had been perfectly ordinary, I would have known I was in the presence of something outside the normal run of humanity.
"Then we have something in common, Miss Gallows. It is Miss, isn't it? My current... ah, condition is a rather recent development, and I find myself in a similar quandary. I know what I must do, but I have no idea
how to do it."
"Then you are better off than I am," I replied, "because I know virtually nothing."
"You are not human." He said it flatly, a statement of fact. To him it was obvious.
"No, not really. I have been entertaining aspirations, but I don't know how realistic they are."
"If I may say so, the human condition has been excessively romanticized and is entirely overrated. I do believe that being a monster suits me much better. Or it will, at any rate, once I have come into my own."
"I wish I had your confidence," I said, and it was true. Inside me there was a silent war between the monster I knew I probably was and the human being I thought I wanted to be. The two were, of course, mutually exclusive, so there could be no compromise. And, since I was not human, I might not be mortal. I hated the thought of spending eternity on the horns of this dilemma.
"My father is a monster and he admits it," I said. "My mother is a bit less of one, I think, but seems not to recognize it at all. She justifies her behavior in various ways, maintaining the fiction that others drive her to perpetrate her atrocities. Most of them are very minor in character, but one was absolutely spectacular. It is the reason I exist. She created me that she might disavow responsibility for her most heinous crime. I did only what she meant me to do, and I continue to do it, even in the face of my own desire to stop. What does that make me? It seems I am no better than a slave. And I do not know who my master is."
"There again," said the vampire, "we are similar. But I know who my master is."
He said the word master as though it were a vile curse. It was plain that he resented his servitude bitterly and had no intention of suffering it any longer than he had to.
"The one saving grace," he went on, "is that my master is a colossal fool and trusts me much more than he ought to. That is why I was sent here to investigate this strange encampment. Until now, I had encountered nothing but obstacles. The place has been fortified against my kind, but you do not share my unfortunate limitations. Perhaps you can, while the sun is up tomorrow, gather as much information as you can. Then we may meet here again after dark and you can share with me what you have learned. If you are amenable, of course."
I nodded. "The arrangement is, I believe, acceptable. I do not know what I have stumbled upon, and my life has already been threatened. I could do with a secret ally. I shall make good use of the coming day and return here in 24 hours. I do not believe you intend me any harm, nor do I have any animosity toward you. I will mention that, if you should change your mind on that score, you may find me a far more formidable opponent than you imagine."
He smiled again and gave me a gentlemanly bow. "I have no doubts on that score, dear lady. I shall be on my best behavior where you are concerned. Now, I have some business to conduct elsewhere before I must return to my enforced slumber. I grow peckish, and I know of an encampment of deputies and vigilantes nearby who are searching the area for some sort of a fugitive. They are all hale and hearty and should provide ample sustenance. And so, Miss Mary Jane Gallows, I bid you good night."
And with that, he was gone. I did not see what direction he took. Indeed, I did not see him move at all. He was simply no longer there.
I returned to my little cabin, less certain of myself and, paradoxically, more hopeful for my future than I had been.
…to be continued...
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THE JOURNAL OF BLOODY MARY JANE EPISODE 1: MY FLORIDA IDYLL
by Chuck Miller
Edited by Tommy Hancock
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
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