The Taxidermist's Lover

by Polly Hall

  I heard a vehicle splashing its way down the road. So I dragged myself back to the truck and drove away. There was nothing more to do. I had seen where I used to live, the place my parents’ souls had departed. They were gone forever.

  At least I hoped they weren’t suffering like those undead creatures we kept in our home.

  The last day of the month and we had our birthdays to celebrate. Born on the same day, you, me and Rhett, even though there were many years between them. You were not quite old enough to be my grandfather, but with my elfish looks and your grizzly appearance the age gap must’ve seemed even more evident to others. I didn’t care what others thought, even though I knew people talked about us behind our backs, chattering like nosy squirrels.

  Rhett was unreliable but I could guarantee he would always remember our birthdays. He had hurriedly left in June and we’d not heard a word from him since. I hoped he had tried to reclaim some of his own identity instead of falling and failing with any woman who crossed his path. I worried about him more than you knew.

  Before the phone started ringing, I knew it was him—sixth sense, twin telepathy, call it what you will. I answered quickly.

  “Rhett.”

  “How did you know it was me?” The line was crackly.

  “You’re my favorite twin.”

  “I’m your only twin. And you are mine, Miss Scarlett.”

  “Don’t start all that rubbish now.” I pictured him pretending to twirl a moustache like his namesake, Rhett Butler, like he used to when we were kids. Was he now mocking our mother’s belief that romance and passion were real objectives to strive for? Obsessed with that dream world of Deep South longing, our mother had wanted her very own Tara to ride a horse and live out her passions. As it happened, she was not much older than I am now when she died. She never rode a horse in her whole life.

  “Where are you calling from?”

  Rhett always called from a place of transit—a bus station or train station, in the boarding area of a flight, on the gangplank of a ship.

  “I’m coming back, Scarlett,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m tired of all this roaming around, it never gets me anywhere. I love it, don’t get me wrong, I—erm—well—I just want a proper home. Like you.”

  “Well—that’s a change from the Rhett I saw in June.” Something must have happened. “Have you fallen in love? Or got that skinny bitch pregnant? Oh my God, you aren’t going to die, are you?” I don’t know why I said it, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, the buzzing started up. Those incessant creatures. Like angry wasps in my head.

  “Scarlett. I’m not ill and you won’t believe it—I’m actually single. Have been for a while now.”

  “Christ, Rhett. Are you sure you’re feeling ok?”

  “I was thinking about how settled you looked with Henry.” Settled. “How you’ve got this home in the middle of nowhere. As if you’d found peace.” Peace? Was he mad?

  We’d moved about when we were orphaned, but I was closer than we’d ever been to the blue house now that I lived with you. I wanted to tell Rhett I’d driven there not so long ago, but the words wouldn’t come out. The phone line crackled and I thought I’d lost him but he was still speaking.

  “. . . Christmas . . . used to do . . . the fire . . .” his words were like patchwork hexagons waiting to be sewed together.

  “Rhett—I can’t hear you? You’re breaking up.”

  “. . . back at Christmas . . . you . . . enry . . . gether . . . old times . . .”

  “Christmas—yes, come and stay. I really miss you.” I had no idea what he was saying, but it was only a couple of months until Christmas Day and if nothing else, that was one tradition we seemed to keep.

  The line went dead, but I pressed it to my ear as if being closer to the source of sound could close the physical distance between us. Nothing. Not a sound. Not even a crackle. But the buzzing in my head turned to a slow hiss, like air being released from a dying man’s lungs.

  I wanted our shared birthdays to be extra special, like a double celebration or triple celebration, even without Rhett present. Our Halloween birthdays were easy to celebrate. The shops were stocked with all sorts of party gimmicks, and I was a sucker for all those skulls and masks. I loved to dress up, much like you loved to dress a specimen with groomed fur or preened feathers. It seemed to me as if an anointing of skin on skin.

  I thought the lights would brighten up the dull, wet days and craftily I planned to keep them up for Christmas and hoped you didn’t mind.

  “Any excuse for dressing up,” you said.

  “I’ve bought you an outfit too,” I gestured to the bag sitting on the kitchen table.

  Your expression faltered slightly, but I knew how you enjoyed roleplay. Spiced things up, you said. You tipped the contents of the bag onto the table as if inspecting a haul of stolen goods and pushed aside the lurid face paint, powder and accessories.

  “—a mask?”

  “Isn’t it terrific?”

  “Frankenstein’s monster?” I could tell you weren’t feeling the exciting vibe that was hammering through me like metal bolts. But there was more to dressing up; I saw you as the creator, Frankenstein himself. You were actually the inventor giving life to the dead creatures, not the creation itself. Even so, it was the monster that represented resurrection and here in the form of a rubber Halloween mask was something close to the truth.

  “You want me to be Frankenstein’s monster?” I don’t know why you were so resistant at first. Perhaps you thought I was branding you a monster. But that was so far from the truth, my love.

  “. . . then I can be your bride—” I said, helping you pull the black suit from the bag.

  “Are we having guests? A party?”

  “No, just the two of us.”

  “Is that so?” You grinned. “Just an intimate, dressing up party for two is it?” Now you understood me.

  “Let’s just hope we don’t get any trick-or-treaters come knocking then.”

  That possibility was far from my mind. We were in the middle of nowhere, down a long track. We would be gloriously alone and together in our fantasy world.

  I set the heating high so a sleepy haze descended on the house. I didn’t want you to see me until I was ready, so I locked myself away, cleansing my body and bathing in sandalwood oil. To make my skin appear pale, I applied powder to my face and arms and slipped into an ivory silk gown. I accentuated my eyes with black eyeliner and applied fake lashes. I fixed the black beehive wig complete with white zigzag stripes of hair, wrapped a fur stole about my neck and stood in front of the mirror to regard my transformation. I felt as if I was about to step onto a film set. My normally pale hair had been replaced by fake dark curls dashed through with a white streak of lightning. I felt like fire on water, like a bride preparing for her own funeral.

  By the time you came in from your workshop it was already dark, but I waited expectantly in the room we rarely used: the big dining room with glass chandelier and large mahogany table. I had laid place settings at both ends of the table and lit the candelabra with black wax candles that flickered in the center. There were no windows open; it shouldn’t have been too draughty. Even so, I’d drawn the heavy brocade curtains so the room was eerily lit, a gothic dream. Piled high in dishes, I had prepared some Halloween delights. Sweet cherries soaked in Kahlua glistened like balls of scooped flesh. Lychees stripped of their rough skin rested like eyeballs in a bowl. A marzipan skull was covered in liquorice spiders, and a bubbling cauldron held beetroot soup, thick and dark red like boiled blood. It seemed a shame that only the two of us would enjoy it, but you were worth all the preparation. It had been many years since I’d gone to so much trouble. The birthday before I met you, I had spent alone, Rhett unsurprisingly absent.

  I heard you come down the stairs and look for me in the kitchen, the door creaking as if playing along with our game. Then your footsteps along the corridor to the end roo
m where I waited. The handle turned slowly, and you pushed the door so I could not see you until it opened halfway. At first, I was startled by your height, but it was the shadow cast by the candles on the wall behind you. Your face was obscured by the mask, a monster’s face, sad and scarred with unhealed stitches and green smudges. The only parts of your body that showed were your eyes and hands.

  I stood up to greet you, and you walked toward me, your black suit rustling to create a sound like fallen autumn leaves. You held out your hands, big and muscular, and I placed my own slender palms on top of yours. We gazed at each other as if meeting for the first time. I knew beneath the mask it was you, but I felt as if a stranger had joined me and I too was unfamiliar to his gaze. The clock struck ten chimes and we stood looking into each other’s eyes until you led me to my chair, pulled it out for me to sit and reached for the carafe of red wine.

  We sat in silence drinking our wine, observing the candle wax drip like molten tar down the shafts and into a solidifying pool on the table. You served me from the dishes and I delicately selected cherries and lychees between finger and thumb, letting the sweet juices trickle down my wrist, as if I were spilling my own blood in sacrifice. You did not eat. Probably because you could not negotiate the mouth hole in the mask, and I was not that hungry for food either.

  I could not read your expression beneath your static, masked face. It was as if water had hardened to ice and left only its last movement there—a sad, silent replica of what might have been. Yet your fierce beauty shone through that façade. You were mine beneath it all, and in its pretense, I wanted you to also see me underneath the satin and wig and layers of costume.

  Your violin rested on the table. It was a family tradition that you had kept, learning it at a young age. Your thick fingers were not the ideal player’s asset but your skill was remarkable. The first time you lifted the instrument to your neck and tucked it neatly beneath your chin I wanted to laugh, because it looked so delicate compared to your bulk. But the way you commanded the strings made me more alert. I forgot that it was your movements that created the sound, believing instead that the violin was possessed by a specter capable of drawing sounds from a mystical place.

  You lifted it and began to play. I closed my eyes and imagined my flesh and bones falling away, my spirit soaring to reach the notes. The whole room seemed to be filled with the vibration of music. I swam in it, bathed in it, sank beneath myself, and then resurfaced. It was as if I had found my wings, and the music you played gave me permission to fly. I was electrified, charged with a million bolts of lightning. Rocking and pulsing in rhythm with your rapid, bow strokes. You, the monster, emanated the sounds of heaven, cascading them down to earth through your hands, not impaired at all by that missing finger. A grand, final note was left ringing through my body as you lowered your violin and bow and held them at your sides. We were both as breathless as if we had just climbed a mountain together. Yet we were inside our home, waiting on each other’s moves.

  You gestured for me to join you on your seat. Like a true Frankenstein’s bride, I responded to your beckoning by rejecting you. You beckoned again, this time by standing and curling your finger as if hooking my will and pulling it toward you. I remained seated. I could hear your breaths, even across the length of the table, above the sounds of the wind howling at the window. A storm was escalating. Behind your mask, the sound was viscous and throaty as if readying for battle. The air was heavy, not only from the heat of the room but the dense velvet darkness permeated only by candlelight.

  You moved toward me and, although I knew it was you beneath the façade, I stiffened a little in my seat. I know you sensed my movement, as it made you more intent on having me. The more I resisted, the stronger your intention. From beneath the table I heard the clink of metal as you retrieved the chains. A long length trailed behind as you slowly walked toward me. As you touched my face, I couldn’t help but flinch. This was our game but with the candlelight I felt transported to a castle in the mountains. Secluded and isolated, there was no one to hear my screams. The chains tightened around my body. Then you stood back and surveyed your bride. I struggled a little to incite you, and it worked, didn’t it, my darling? I could’ve easily slipped your chains but didn’t. To think you had me all to yourself in those sweet, dark days.

  Outside I heard the screech of a bird or a screaming banshee flying above the roof. Perhaps the witches were out. Or the ghosts. The veil was thin tonight on All Hallows Eve, and we were on the threshold of piercing it.

  The clock struck midnight and the games began.

  It was my most memorable birthday. Even when I count up all my childhood birthdays. My family never really celebrated birthdays. Most days in my childhood were catered with party food; it was all my mother ever prepared. When I was invited to another child’s birthday party, I thought it a normal teatime, not an occasional treat. Mother used paper plates, so there was rarely any washing up, and we were forever sticking pineapple or cheese or pickled vegetables onto cocktail sticks. In fact, that may be where my obsession with using my fingers came from, an echo of the finger food introduced in my early years.

  The morning after, I tentatively asked you about Felix. What had happened? Why was he wanted? Was there anything you needed to tell me? But you shrugged it off and left me to wonder. There were more pressing things to do. His fate had flashed up on the news a few times then disappeared beneath more saturated updates about the weather.

  “. . . a sustainable solution to the rising waters, here in Somerset, is yet to be reached . . . it is no surprise that feelings are running high . . . some villagers in this small community have even gone so far as to purchase their own watercraft in preparation for what is thought to be another inevitable flood situation . . .”

  The water levels were getting higher with no sign of a break in the weather. You continued digging a trench around our perimeter, our very own moat. Just in case, you said. But I knew it was a private fantasy of yours. To create your own island set apart from the rest of the village. Were you keeping everyone out, or were you keeping us in? You started at the east edge of the pond and worked round the inner edge of the fence so a deep gully ran around us like a ring with the earth piled up to create an embankment. The only break was the width of the driveway that dipped down to the road. Potholes had already formed from the running water sitting on its surface.

  I lit the fire for us as you scrubbed the dirt from your body. You joined me as I ate the left-over lychees from a bowl. I sucked the perfumed flesh until it gave way to the silky, dark red stone. The flavor reminded me of Turkish Delight, strong and rose-flavored, not fitting its almost dull grey hue. Lychees repulsed my mother. She said they looked like dead flesh. I suspect she meant they looked like eyeballs, but I had never been fooled by how things appeared. Having lived with Rhett and his scars, I could not see why anyone would judge by looks alone. It was only the surface after all.

  I carried my own scars, but unlike Rhett’s, they were mostly inside my head, out of sight. It would be good to talk to him, properly, about the night our parents died. I felt as if the world were speeding up to meet us, like a dam about to burst. I flicked the TV channels to catch more news.

  “. . . the Environment Agency have upped their level of alert for the Rivers Tone, Parrett and Brue following an unprecedented amount of rainfall over the past few weeks. There is growing anger among the residents of one low-lying village . . .”

  The camera panned over the waterlogged fields and houses sitting like lonely, unopened parcels. I watched you snoozing and thought of how familiar you had become to me. When we first met, during those tentative exploratory days, it was like discovering a new landscape. You were not like the other men I had been intimate with. There were the physical differences, of course, but I mean you were somehow exquisite in your wildness, like a tree that had grown strong roots and gnarled branches but retained its beauty by being natural. You were pure to me; each wrinkle and hair was perfectly pl
aced. They became landmarks I could rely on. I knew you, just as you knew me. Do you remember counting the moles on my belly and trying to create an image by dot-to-dot? You said it could be a diamond or a star. Like the one that led the Magi to Bethlehem. Christmas would soon be upon us.

  Christmas Day—Today

  Dusk

  It is getting dark outside and I feel the darkness inside me lurch and spin. I crave solitude but that is unlikely now there are so many creatures beside me. You are dozing on the couch with a bottle of whisky and I wonder if you still regard me as the woman you first set your eyes upon.

  I am woman because of molded curves of flesh, because of secret curls of purple longing, because of acid tongue and saccharine touch, because of the debris of wave-lashed life-rafts abandoned on pure shores, because of the gold in my shadow, because of the sunbird-yellow highs and beetle-black lows, because of harmonic saffron-laced sultana dreams, because of tinsel-tacked rain-shower droplets of mercury on peat and leaf and breathless, boneless sorrow, because of woven willow baskets of stripped-back straightened reeds and rushes in dark, damp ditches lasting for eternity in ancestral memory, because of elderflower patchwork flowers suspended in sugary liquid, because of never-never take me home with you then release me from the cycle of the here and now, here and now, because of endless chatter shaped like the legs of insects tickling my feet, to the essence of my naked soul.

  You snore loudly then mutter something in your sleep. I don’t hear what you say.

  November

  I hated winter and I hated rain. Both were a recipe for my mean mood. I couldn’t shake off this dull, moaning ache of melancholia. The water seemed to seep into everything and even your stuffed creatures looked disgruntled, as if the damp had somehow crept between their feathers and fur and squatted like an unwanted guest.