The Lord Came at Twilight

by Daniel Mills

  I stooped and lowered her to the ground. Her eye-sockets bored into me, dark with congealed blood. I covered her face with my shirt and took my axe to the ground. The soil yielded with every blow, loosening. I carried no shovel but contrived a spade from a split timber and applied myself to the task of digging.

  The daylight dwindled. Ravens and crows floated about the oak, trapped within its orbit, buoyed by the wind and rising. By dusk, my labors were at an end. The grave was prepared, deep enough that the birds would not disturb it. I lifted the girl and walked with her to the hole that waited. There I laid her down and buried her with the past at the foot of that bloodied tree.

  Full on night. I made my way home and supped by the hearth as was my habit. The windows rattled. Beyond the house, the night lay open—cloudless, cold for autumn—and I retired to bed with the shutters drawn, the crisp air whistling through.

  I slept. I dreamt.

  From dreams I woke, roused by a voice from the north.

  I rose, sweating, and went to the window. The shutters fell open on a tranquil scene. White pines in rows and trembling. Lights flickering in the looming void.

  Pull me out.

  The words were delivered without emotion, a prayer repeated so many times it had lost the power to comfort. The voice belonged to the girl I had buried—somehow I was certain of this—and I imagined her soul, beating like a pulse in the ruins of her body, chained to this world where she had wanted only to be free of it, to be forgotten.

  In this, my father too had failed. Pull me out, he had pleaded with me, all those years ago. He had been dead for months—a suicide, buried by my mother while the ravens swooped and circled—but death alone could not release him from the burden he carried. Even decades later, he survived in memory, the curse to which each man is heir. Life Eternal.

  The wind shifted. The stars dimmed.

  Pull me out, my mother said, and I knew that she had died in these hills, rolled into an unmarked grave when madness overtook her at last. Other voices swam out of the south, joining hers in the chorus of indifferent anguish: the rough accents of the men who had cleared the forests, who died of drink or disease in the wastelands they had created.

  Pull me out.

  And I thought of the oak tree. There were faces in the bark, bodies writhing, brown on gray—and mine among them. For we are all ghosts, even the living. We live, we die, and still the land remembers. These hills offer no rest, no escape. In that lonely hollow, the oak tree broods as it has done since days of Eden, feasting on the dreaming dead, alight with autumn’s fire.

  It must be felled.

  The sky is clear tonight. There is a moon.

  I will take my axe and climb to the hollow. I do not know what awaits me there, but I am not frightened. If I die, I die. It matters not, so long as there is no one to remember me.

  MS FOUND IN A CHICAGO HOTEL ROOM

  The establishment had no name. The night clerk made this clear to me.

  It may have had once, he explained. Probably it did. But the signboard outside had long since faded, weathered by years of rain and winter. Any lettering had been erased completely, while the remaining paint was cracked and peeling, yellow with age.

  A pale, sickly kind of color, he added. Like a wound gone bad.

  Wounds were one subject of which the hotel clerk possessed an intimate knowledge. His left arm terminated in a stump at the elbow, the sleeve cut short to reveal a mass of scar tissue. The man was in his fifties, old enough to have fought in the war against the Confederacy.

  I was, I admit, skeptical. While my work had taken me to New York on many occasions previously, I had never before heard of this strange establishment, unnamed and outwardly unremarkable save for the color of its signboard.

  And you’re sure I’ll find… I trailed off meaningfully.

  You trust old Everett, he said, winking. He chuckled, a horrible, scraping sound, wet stones on cobble. Ask for Camilla.

  He went on to give directions. I was to leave the hotel and continue down Mulberry toward the old Five Points slum. But don’t go no farther than Canal Street, he warned. Instead, I was to take Canal over to the Bowery.

  You’ll find the place a few blocks down, he said. Can’t miss it.

  I can find my way, I’m sure.

  I never doubted it, he said, grinning. And if you find yourself lost, you can always ask about that old yellow sign. Someone’s sure to know what you’re talking about.

  I reached into my coat and plucked a dollar from my purse. I placed the coin face up on the counter. Columbia’s face glinted, gray and dull.

  The clerk’s hand shot out to cover it.

  There’s also the matter of the key. He eyed me expectantly, mouth drooping like a bloodhound’s, the lips vivid and red.

  Key?

  I’ll need your room key from you. Before you go.

  But I may be late. Shouldn’t I take it with me?

  Oh, I’ll be here. Don’t worry yourself about that. You just hurry on back.

  *

  It was a miserable night, sweltering, and the damp lay like a pall over that stinking corpse of a city. Within minutes, it had seeped through my shirt and coat, soaking me to my under-things. Sweat stood like fever on the faces of the men who hurried past, attired in brown coats and bowlers, their hands in their pockets.

  Women watched from second-floor windows, little more than silhouettes, while children roamed the street below: knobby limbs, tattered garments. They traveled in packs, mostly, keeping to the dark between streetlamps, visible only in moments, like moths glimpsed beyond the circle of firelight.

  Several blocks down Mulberry, I entered an unfamiliar quarter. Here refinery furnaces burned through the night, painting the stars into obscurity. The air was fetid: I breathed in smoke and breathed out ash, forming clouds on my lips like fragments of the need that lived inside of me, which drove me into the night as surely as the winds that swept down to the East River.

  I followed the clerk’s directions to the letter. At Canal Street, I turned east toward the Bowery. Once there, I traveled south for several blocks, doubling back when I realized I had gone too far. The yellow sign proved elusive. Can’t miss it, the clerk had said, but I wandered the same stretch of the Bowery for the better part of an hour until at last the heat pressed hard upon me and I had to sit down.

  In the distance, I heard the moan of the ferry, the layered din from the music halls. Songs overlapped, merging one with another, while voices issued from the tenement behind me, a babble of conversations carried on in Irish, Spanish, Italian. I closed my eyes and lowered my face into my hands.

  Good evening, a voice said. Are you alright?

  I lifted my head, surprised to find myself confronted by a young man of twenty or twenty-one. He was handsome, in apparent good health, and his clothes were well-made. Under one arm, he carried a slim valise, three feet by two but little thicker than a cigar case. He smiled broadly, his lips curling to meet his moustache.

  Thank you, I said. I’m—quite well.

  Rising, I offered my hand, giving a false name as I did so. He introduced himself as Robert and folded his hand around mine. He squeezed, strong but gentle, his skin cool and dry despite the heat of the evening.

  And now, my good fellow, you look rather the lost sheep. Might I be of some assistance?

  I looked him over again, taking in the fine clothes, the thin case. For a moment, I half-fancied him for the religious sort, one of those well-meaning young men who would carry bibles into the depths of Tartarus itself as long as he could return home to his wife and townhouse with everything in its place. But his ready smile and obvious amiability put me at my ease.

  There is a—place—nearby. It has no name, I’m given to understand, but the sign outside is a most peculiar shade of—

  Yellow?

  His eyes glittered.

  Well—yes.

  He laughed, a roar of surprise and delight. And here I thought you meant to ask me the way to
the nearest music hall.

  You know of it?

  He nodded. As it happens, I’m going there myself. Perhaps you might care to accompany me?

  I fell into step beside him.

  It’s good of you, I said. Truly.

  Not at all. We’re not far off now. You’ll see.

  We continued to the end of the block, where my companion turned sharply to the right. He plunged down a sunken roadway—long abandoned, half-flooded by a cracked water main—and I followed him through puddles that were ankle-deep and warm as bathwater.

  Eventually, we reached another street even more decrepit, where the air reeked of piss and spoiled milk. Laundry-lines flapped like sails overhead, festooned with colorful rags. After two blocks, my guide ducked down another side street before completing the circle by turning right once more.

  This should have brought us back to the Bowery, but the street we entered bore little resemblance to the noisome squalor we had left behind. The crumbling tenements were gone, replaced by elaborate structures of concrete and steel. There were no street children, no milling crowds. Instead, an orderly procession of impeccably-attired men and women walked arm-in-arm down the sidewalk, talking and laughing, engaged in an animated discussion of an opera or play they had all just attended. In the lane, carriages were pulled up, black and gleaming, drawn by fine specimens of horseflesh. Even the street signs were unfamiliar: Genevieve Street, Castaigne Court.

  Is this the Bowery? I asked, confused.

  Of course. Don’t you recognize it?

  I offered no reply.

  We walked on in silence. My companion maintained a brisk, nearly martial pace, swinging his arms with such vigor that I worried he would lose his valise. Clearly, he was no young missionary equipped with bibles and the armor of self-righteousness. And yet I did not think to ask what he carried inside the case.

  He halted. Here we are, he said. He pointed up at the splintered sign board, a faceless plank of weather-worn timber caked in faded paint. The color may have once been gray or brown but now appeared yellow in the glow cast by a streetlamp opposite.

  The establishment itself occupied a three story building in the Queen Anne style, the walls fashioned from red brick. The windows were numerous and brightly-lit, though masked with damask drapes that hid the rooms beyond.

  Come along, Robert said.

  He led me inside into an elaborately-furnished sitting room, characterized by paintings in expensive frames and couches upholstered in dark velvet. Most prominent among the room’s many ornaments was a gilded clock, which stood over six feet in height. Its face was divided into several dials of various sizes, the largest of which gave the time as a quarter past two—but surely that couldn’t be right, I reflected, as it wasn’t yet ten-thirty when I left the hotel. Other dials appeared to tell the month and the year, though these, too, were incorrect. A final gauge noted the phase of the moon. Waning.

  A woman received us at the counter. She was tall and emaciated, the skin stretched tight over her skull. In color, she was so pale as to be transparent. Her veins showed like scrimshaw under the skin, darkening to violet where they gathered at her temples. She addressed my companion.

  Back again, are you? Here to see Cassie, I take it.

  Robert grinned. You know me too well! Would the lovely lady be available?

  For you, young man, I dare say she’d make herself available. Of course, it probably wouldn’t matter to you, even if she wasn’t. Maybe you’d prefer it that way.

  Maybe I would, he said, flashing the same winning smile. Indeed, fair lady, I think you may be right.

  Fair lady? she scoffed. Ah, go on, up with you. He won’t be back for another hour at least. I’ll let him know you’re in there.

  You have my thanks. He turned and offered me his hand. Do you think you can find your own way from here?

  I nodded.

  Good man, said he, and clapped me on the shoulder. He transferred the valise from under his arm, and then, carrying it at his side, stepped round the counter and passed through the curtained doorway beyond.

  The pale woman turned her attention on me. And you, sir? she said, speaking more formally than before. I believe you’re joining us tonight for the first time?

  Yes, that’s right.

  One moment.

  She stooped beneath the counter, disappearing from view. I heard the click of a key in a lock, the groan of oiled hinges. Then she straightened, holding a ledger in both arms. The binding was good, the pages crisp and new. She placed it on the counter—gently, the way a mother carries a child—and opened to the marked page.

  She looked up at me. With one hand, she held a fountain pen. The other rested on the counter, placed with apparent casualness, though the barrel of a Derringer was just visible where it poked between her fingers.

  And which name should I use?

  I told her, employing the same pseudonym I had used when meeting Robert. She nodded and noted this down. And do you know who you’re here to see?

  Camilla.

  Camilla? You sure of that?

  I am. Is there a problem?

  No, sir. None at all.

  She continued to write for the better part of a minute, the nib scratching and scratching. A glance into the corner of the room confirmed what I had initially suspected: the clock’s hands had not changed position. In this unnamed establishment, it was always a quarter past two.

  The woman pressed the ledger shut and secreted it away beneath the counter. The gun, I noticed, had disappeared as well. I’ll need payment from you upfront, she said. Not many men can afford to see Camilla. She named a price. It was expensive, but not exorbitant, and ultimately less than I had expected, given the general opulence of the establishment.

  I paid it gladly.

  She motioned to the curtained entrance behind her. Go on up to the third floor. Camilla’s is the fourth door on the right.

  The curtains parted, ushering me into a narrow corridor marked at either end by a twisting stair. The hall was lined with closed doors carved with scenes from mythology: images of Io and Leda, women sprawled under gods. The smell of smoke was especially pronounced, the cloying odor of cigars. From behind one door came a man’s voice, muffled and gravelly, followed by a woman’s laughter.

  I proceeded to the end of the hall and climbed to the third floor, emerging in a new corridor identical to the first in all respects save the wallpaper, which was painted with a pastoral scene: rolling hills, castles, olive groves. A mass-produced print, I decided, though an artist had made certain embellishments, adding a courting couple to the riverbank and again to the castle’s battlements.

  The woman stood with her back against the tower-wall. She was arrayed in silks and ruffles, a woman of means. Her golden hair streamed with the wind, hiding her face. The man kneeled before her, as though requesting her hand, but his bare back was turned to the audience, and I wondered why he should be naked.

  They were not alone. Another figure could be seen at the far end of the battlements, a man watching. His face was lightly sketched, presented in profile, but there was something vaguely familiar about him, a likeness I couldn’t place.

  I reached Camilla’s door. I knocked—gently at first but louder when I received no reply. The handle gave way at a touch. The door swung inward, admitting me to a dimly-lit chamber. The hearth was cold, the lone window shaded with purple damask. The only light emanated from a candelabrum on the mantelpiece, casting layered shadows over the elaborate wallpaper, the four-poster hung with scarlet drapes.

  Camilla stood by the window, robed in silk. Her hair was black and curly, gathered atop her head in a series of nested spirals, while her gown was in the Chinese style: crimson, clean lines, the back stitched with a sunburst in gold.

  Hearing my step, she turned, and I was surprised to discover that she wore a mask. It was made from porcelain: bone-white and perfectly smooth, a cold facsimile of feminine beauty with elliptical holes left for eyes and mouth. She held he
r robe closed across her chest, alluringly modest, a triangle of pale skin visible at her throat, merging with the shadows where it plunged to hidden curves below.

  She did not speak. Gliding to the night stand, she withdrew a glass pipe from her robe. It was long and slim, a delicate stem that sloped to a shallow bowl. At the night stand, she pushed back the lid of an ornate snuff box. Inside, I could see a coarse black powder, gritty like coal-dust. She withdrew a pinch and placed it in the bowl.

  With the pipe in one hand, she approached the hearth and took down the candelabrum. Her robe fell open, revealing her breasts, the thatch of hair between her legs. She made no attempt to cover herself but merely held the candelabrum at her chest and gazed at me through the twitching flame-tips. Her eyes bored into me: black and deep and bracingly still. I returned her stare, unable to look away.

  She exhaled, extinguishing two of the candles so that only one remained lit. Tilting the candelabrum, she held the flame to the side of the pipe-bowl and slipped the stem into her mouth. The powder glowed, orange then black. Her inhalation lasted several seconds.

  She replaced the pipe and candle on the mantelpiece and turned her gaze on me once more. Extending her hand, she beckoned me closer, one finger curling back, drawing me in. Only then did I realize that she had not exhaled, that she was in fact holding the pipe-smoke in her lungs.

  I stepped forward.

  For a moment, she regarded me closely, silently. Then, with queer violence, she grabbed hold of my hair and tugged down my head, crushing my face against the mask. Her mouth found mine through the gap in the porcelain. Her lips were as dry and coarse as parchment.

  Smoke filled my mouth, my lungs. Darkness bloomed inside my skull, the acrid stench of blood-iron, slow decay. My vision blurred. I coughed and staggered back, losing my balance and tumbling backward. I landed on the bed. The blankets yielded—gave way—and closed over me. The bedroom vanished, and I sank into oblivion.