I would have to begin with Father and rely on his courage and wisdom to help me deal with the others. But inert as my heart had become, I could yet feel it shrink a bit at the idea of approaching him. The simple fact was that I was highly embarrassed about the whole business, for it would involve a lengthy confession on my intimacy with Nora, something I had only dared to confide to my private journal.
Heavens, I hoped that no one had found it and was lightly turning over those pages. Such thoughts as I'd recorded there were for my eyes alone...
Later? I questioned.
Later, an inner voice wearily confirmed.
As for any difficulties I might encounter with my family... in every possible way I had taken on Nora's abilities, so I had no doubt that if it came to it I could enforce my will upon them. I could ease their fears, even alter their very thoughts, if necessary.
But this was an abhorrence to me, for it meant that I might momentarily be forced to adopt my mother's hated precept of "doing it for their own good."
If it must be, then so be it. I needed them. Surely they would forgive me even as I'd forgiven Nora. If that happened, well and good, but if not, then I'd learn to live with it somehow. I would gladly ease any fear, but that's as far as it would go.
They would not be my dancing puppets.
Approaching the side door closest to the stables, I slowed and pondered a new problem: how to get inside my own home. With the times being so terribly uncertain, Father had had heavy bolts fixed to all the doors and ground-floor windows. Despite the warmth of the season these were always firmly locked by one of the servants after we'd all gone to bed. The heat was no real
hardship, since everyone slept on the next floor or in the attic and those windows had no need to be locked. Standing back, I saw that all the ones on this face of the upper story were wide open, even the one to my room. Convenient, but only if I were a bird and able to fly in.
Orfloat?
I started to dismiss that one, but reconsidered as the idea had a lunatic attractiveness to it. If I could induce myself to that floating state, even learn to control it...
No. I shook my head. That was far too fanciful. Frightening, too. I was absolutely not going to explore that possibility. Besides, there had to be a much easier way in. I had only to look for it. A ladder would be just the thing. I seemed to recall there being one lying on its side against the house somewhere in the back, or perhaps in the stable....
Going around to the rear of the house, I spied the cellar doors and gave them a hopeful try. Bolted. The hinges on the right half were rather free, though. There was enough play between the metal and the wood for me to force my fingers in and give an experimental tug.
For the second time that night I found myself bowled over on my backside. The right half flew up with a sharp crack as the hinge nails slipped from the wood. I'd gotten the balance all wrong or miscalculated my own strength. The door slammed down into place and would have made the devil's own row if I hadn't caught it at the last second. My hand was sorely bruised, but nothing worse. Righting myself and cursing with quiet intensity at the pain, I lifted it just enough to get inside.
The place was dank and dark, the latter coming as a surprise to me. I'd grown so used to being able to see impossibly well at night that I was momentarily nonplussed. Without a candle, I was doomed to blundering my way around any number of hazards like an ordinary man. Not having the means to make a light, I backed up and loosened the bolt on the doors and pushed on the half with the broken hinges. It slid to one side with an unhappy scrape that had me wincing at the noise, but the opening provided more than sufficient light. Now I'd be able to make my way up to the kitchen without stumbling over anything and breaking my neck.
As it was the custom to keep the fire banked and ready for the next day's cooking, the kitchen was very warm. I fled through
it, for despite my lack of regular breathing, the lingering food smells still managed to penetrate my nose and set my stomach to writhing. I briefly thought about returning for a candle, but decided it was unnecessary. From here I could easily find the way to my room.
I took my shoes off before going upstairs and was careful to avoid the spots in the floor that creaked. The silence filling the place seemed to be a listening one. I hated playing the fugitive, but nothing else would have been right. I wasn't sure what would be, though, having consigned that problem to the nebulous and now fast-approaching future. Doubtless something would work itself out. After all my exertions my clothes were, as Mrs. Nooth might have said, "in a state." Confronting my family while so disheveled was not at all desirable, but that had become less important than changing for the sake of my own comfort. Once out of them and free of their attendant reminders of the grave, I'd feel much better and more of a mind to think.
An easy push on the door and I was standing in the familial security of my own room.
The first impression I got was that it had been given a better than average cleaning by Jericho. The table I used for study was no longer stacked with its clutter of papers and open books. The former were gone and the latter all firmly closed and lined up in their case. This angered me. I hadn't finished with those yet and he knew it....
But he also knew I'd never return to them again. 1 had died Oh, my poor friend.
Other details impressed themselves upon me. On a table by the bed someone had placed a burning candle in a small holder within a wide bowl of water. I hadn't seen this sort of thing since Elizabeth and I had been very young children and wanted a light to chase away the night terrors.
The bed itself had been turned down as if waiting for my return. Laid out at its foot was the elaborate dressing gown Elizabeth had made me; on the floor were my slippers.
I recoiled from this otherwise innocuous sight. It was perfectly innocent, until you remembered that the missing occupant was dead and supposedly gone forever. Had they turned my room into some kind of horrid shrine to my memory? It was repellent but then I might not have felt differently had I come in to find
the place stripped of belongings and bare of all evidence of my existence.
It would change. Before the night was out, everything would be changed back. Perhaps not the same as before, but better than this ghastly, grief-filled present.
First things first. I had to get these things off.
Hastily, I stripped from my coat, peeled away shirt and breeches, and scraped free of stockings and underclothes. The air gently flowing in from the window was sweet upon my naked skin. I stretched to let it touch every part of me and combed back my tangled hair with my fingers. Marveling, I saw that the scar on my chest marking where the musket ball had gone in was much fainter and smaller than before.
My Sunday clothes I left in a pile on the floor, though I did remove the silver buckles from the shoes to place in their usual case in the wardrobe.
The wardrobe, unfortunately, unexpectedly, unhappily, and unreasonably, was quite, quite empty.
I stared at it like a brainless buffoon, jaw hanging and eyes popping for a ludicrous amount of time until white-hot outrage flooded through me. Couldn't they have waited just a little while before disbursing my things among themselves and the servants? I could understand the basic need to put me into the ground the same day I'd died, for the weather was far too hot for any delays, but it wouldn't have hurt to let a decent interval pass by before performing this other ritual of death.
Slamming the door, careless of the noise, I grabbed up the dressing gown and pulled it on, my movements made stiff by anger. I tried the top drawer of the chest at the foot of the bed. Empty. Not even a dusting of lint remained in the corners. Disgusted, I slammed it shut as well. I had nothing else to wear other than the dressing gown or my grave clothes and I'd be damned before I put them on again. Fuming, I returned to the wardrobe and checked its drawers. I didn't really think I'd find anything, but then I wasn't really thinking at all at this point.
Empty, empty, and empty. The little treasures left ov
er from boyhood, too worthless for a sensible man to keep, too priceless to throw away, were gone.
Even my private journal, my diary, keeper of all my thoughts... gone.
This was the last straw.
The door to my room slowly opened. Elizabeth stood there, a shawl draped over her night dress and gripping a candle in one unsteady hand. She managed to look both uncertain and alarmed. I was yet too insensate to be rational. All thought, all consideration of what had happened had been driven from my mind. With what I felt was justified exasperation, I turned on her. "Damnation, Elizabeth, where are my things?"
My sister had paused to look in upon me, doubtless drawn by the noise I'd been making. It was a normal sight for me to sec her there. In the past had she not come in countless other times for a late conversation before retiring? In the past. The past before I had died. She froze, stock still, held in place by the unimaginable, paralyzed by the inconceivable. Her great eyes were stricken and hollow. No sound came from her open mouth. She didn't seem to be breathing at all and despite the warm glow of her small light, her skin went dreadfully ashen.
I froze as well, first with surprise at her expression, then wi shock at my own unbounded stupidity as I belatedly realized thai I was surely God's greatest fool.
Contrite, I reached out to her. "I'm sorry. I-" She dropped back a step, her lips parting for a scream that she was too frightened to release. Never had I seen such a look of blank terror on anyone's face, much less that of my own sister. Remorse welled within me, choking my voice.
"Please don't be afraid. I'm not a ghost. Oh, please, Elizabeth."
She dropped her candle. The tiny flame went out in the fall; the stick struck the floor with a thud. Melted wax sprayed over the painted wood. She backed away one more step, making! soft oh as she did so.
"For God's sake, Elizabeth, don't leave me. I need you." "No," she finally whispered, her voice high and blurred with tears.
Oh, the impossibilities were legion. I'd had the time to con front them one by one, get used to them, accept them; poor Elizabeth was having to do it all at once. "It's all right. I am real. I-"
"What do you want?" Her words were so thin that I barely heard them. She seemed just on the point of tearing away and running.
My heart was breaking for her, for myself. I could feel it cracking right in two. "I want to come home."
"It can't be."
It must-or I should be forever lost. I needed my family, my home, they were all I had, without them I was truly dead. I could not go on without them. The impossible had to become possible.
My hand still out, I moved slowly toward her, close enough to touch, but careful not to do so. "It's all right. I am here. I am real. There's no need to fear, I would never, ever hurt you. Please..."
Perhaps the agony of feeling rather than the inadequate words broke through, but something inside her seemed to awaken. I could see the change gradually come to her face. Her eyes now traveled to my trembling hand, and with painful caution, her own rose to take it. Our fingers gently touched. I remained still, waiting for her thoughts to catch up with her senses.
"Jonathan?"
"I'm right here. I'm not a dream." I encompassed her tentative fingers lightly, all the time fearing she might pull away, but unable to stop. She did not draw back, though, and after a long moment her own grasp strengthened. Hardly aware of the movement, I sank to my knees, awed and humbled by this raw proof of her courage and love. As if in mirror to my own, crystal-bright tears were streaming down her cheeks.
"Oh, little brother...," she began, but could not finish. Instead, she opened her arms and drew me close and we clung to each other and wept as though we were children again, finding common comfort in the sharing.
When the worst of the storm had passed, she pulled a limp handkerchief from the pocket of her gown and swiped at her eyes and nose. "I've none for you," she said apologetically.
I laughed a little, that she should worry over such a trifle. "Never mind."
We looked at one another and I felt awkward and abashed to have been the cause of any distress to her. Elizabeth seemed to vacillate between joy and terror. Both of us realized it at the same time and that this was not the place to settle our many questions.
"Come," she whispered. I found my feet and followed her. My legs were shaking with relief and trepidation.
She'd left the door to her room open, but shut it as soon as we were inside. Within was evidence of the restlessness that had kept her up at such a late hour. The rumpled bedclothes were turned back and several candles were burning themselves away to dispel the darkness of the night and of the soul. Her Bible and prayer book were open on her table along with a bottle of Father's good brandy. While she rummaged in a drawer for fresh handkerchiefs, I poured a sizable drink for her. "You need it," I said.
"By God, I know I do," she agreed, exchanging a square foot of soft white linen for the glass. I blew my nose as she drained away the brandy. Much stronger than the wine she was accustomed to, the stuff had its usual immediate effect on her, for she dropped right into her chair as her legs gave out.
I stared as if seeing her for the first time. In truth, I was seeing her with new eyes. How must Lazarus have looked upon his own sisters after his return from the dead? The comparison now struck me as being downright blasphemous, but I had no other examples to draw from in my memory. Did he see how vulnerable they were? Did he feel as aged and wearied by his experience? Or perhaps they were better sustained by the strength of their faith than I. At least none of them had been so alone in their ordeal.
The listening silence of the house washed against me, so profound that I could hear Elizabeth's heart beat. Once part of the background, now it seemed to fill the room with its swift drumming. I knelt again and took her hand, pressing the inside of her slender wrist to my ear. This was music, the greatest music I'd ever heard. And the music was but one of a thousand, thousand other precious, fleeting things that I might never have appreciated or even known, but for Nora's.,.
gift.
Elizabeth spread her fingers to caress my hair. "Oh, Jonathan,
how is this possible?"
"I have no easy answer for you."
A smile fled over her face. The color was returning. "I don't think I could expect one."
"Is everyone all right? Is Father all right?"
Her expression fell. "What happened absolutely shatters
him."
"Good God, I must go to him-" I started for the door.
"He's not home," she said. "He went out late this afternoon. He went to Mrs. Montagu. I made him go," she added, as if she had to apologize for his absence. "She couldn't possibly come here and he needed to see her."
Then he would at least be with someone who loved him. "That's all right, I understand, but soon I must see him."
"Of course. We'll have to go over right away."
"Yes. It'll be better for him if you're there. But please, tell me where my clothes are."
I must have sounded very forlorn. She suddenly slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle laughter that threatened to go to tears again. She leaned forward and held me, her head resting on my shoulder. I wanted to let her stay, but there was so much to do yet. She may have sensed it and pulled away to blow her nose. It had grown rather red. I loved it. I loved her.
She made a vague gesture to indicate my room. "That was Mother's doing. After the... services she ordered Jericho to pack everything up. I think Dr. Beldon got some of your better shirts. Oh, God, oh, God." She struggled against another sweep of emotion, shuddering from the effort.
"I'll sort it out with Beldon," I said quickly. "Is he all right, too? He looked so awful when... when..."
She broke off her work with the handkerchief to stare at me as we both realized the time for explanations was upon us. Everyone, even Father, would have to wait. "You must tell me," she whispered. "Tell me everything."
I rocked back on my bare heels and stood, pacing the room once or tw
ice to put my thoughts in order. She watched my smallest move, her eyes wide as if she were afraid to look away or even blink, lest I disappear. Her hands clutched the arms of her chair like talons. Tonight her world had lurched and tumbled and yet she was prepared to face the next twisting blow. Very brave, but not the best state of mind for listening.
Elizabeth's cat lay on her bed, a tawny torn of considerable size and phlegmatic temperament. I picked him up and stroked him into a rumbling purr, delighting in the sensation of his warmth and softness. As with so much else, that which had been commonplace was now a wonderment to me. I took him over to Elizabeth and put him in her lap. He adapted to the change with indifference and continued his low murmur of contentment. She responded to it and began petting him. Her
posture relaxed somewhat, though her eyes never left me.
Where to begin? In the churchyard? In my coffin? The ride with Beldon? Or much further back, with Nora? That was a tale I thought I'd never share with anyone. Ah, well, Elizabeth wasn't the sort to blush easily; I wasn't as certain about myself.
P N Elrod - Barrett 1 - Red Death Page 25
