Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  There was, in fact, only one person with whom I could speak freely about my past. So when Sunday arrived, I returned to Eastern State Penitentiary.

  The guard, Callahan, was again there to greet me, using the long walk down Cell Block 7 to tell me how much he had enjoyed my article in the Evening Bulletin.

  “It seems you’ve had quite an adventure, Mr. Clark,” he said. “Now I know why you were so eager to visit Magellan Holmes the other night.”

  I stopped so fast that my boots squeaked on the cell block floor. “You do?”

  “You can’t fool me,” Callahan said. “No, sir. I know exactly what you were up to.”

  “And what”—I cleared my throat, hoping my utter fear of being exposed didn’t shine through—“do you assume we were talking about?”

  “Magic, naturally,” the guard replied. “In regards to that séance you pulled off. I’d wager that such an elaborate trick required expert planning, so you came here to ask the world’s greatest magician for advice.”

  “You’re right about that, Mr. Callahan,” I said, relief filling me from head to foot. “I can’t fool you. That’s exactly what Mr. Holmes and I talked about.”

  “Did he tell you anything useful?”

  “If he hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have come back here to thank him.”

  Callahan, his curiosity sated, allowed me to walk the rest of the way by myself. Soon I was standing before the cell of Magellan Holmes, alone with him once again.

  This time, my father stood in the center of his cell. The window sliced into the ceiling cast a narrow sliver of sunlight over him, illuminating his hair and his drawn, pale face. He wasn’t pleased to see me, nor did I expect him to be.

  “I told you to stay away,” he said. “You should learn to take my advice, Mr. Clark.”

  I gripped the door of his cell, in no mood for his disdain. “Corinthian Black is dead. He tried to kill me, but someone else got to him before he could finish the deed.”

  My father did a poor job of hiding his surprise. Sudden concern for my well-being was etched across his face. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you know who he is,” I said. “And I know he was a member of the Praediti.”

  My father rushed to the door, just as I’d expected he would. “You promised to never say that word again!”

  “Things have changed, Father,” I said. “And I require answers. Now tell me, who are they?”

  “Trust me, Columbus. You need to leave them alone.”

  “I no longer have a choice.” I thought about Corinthian Black, so surprised to realize my true identity, and his ominous warning about there being many more members of the Praediti. If he knew who I was, then others might as well. “You need to tell me everything.”

  Clearly, that was the last thing my father wanted to do. He paced his cell like a caged animal, tormented by the decision he faced. Eventually, he returned to the door, curling his fingers around the slats of woven iron.

  “What do you need to know?” he quietly asked.

  “The meaning of the name, for starters.”

  “ Praediti,” my father said. “It means ‘the gifted ones.’ ”

  Claudia’s voice shimmered in my memory, echoing that strange chant. Gloria enim Praediti. Now I knew what it meant.

  For the glory of the gifted ones.

  “Who are they and how are they gifted?”

  The once-amazing Magellan backed away from the door. He sat down on his cot, hands on his knees, unable to face me. “Do you believe in ghosts, Columbus?”

  A week earlier, I would have said no. But by then I knew better. I had seen them. I had spoken to them. Even more, one had spoken through me.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good,” my father said. “Because they exist. They roam this earth as surely as you or I do. Few can see them, which is as it should be. They are things half in shadow, glimpsed briefly and not fully understood. The Praediti consist of people who know these spirits exist, people capable of contacting the dead.”

  “Mediums?”

  “Oh, they’re more than that. Not only can they communicate with the dead, but they can call upon them to do their bidding.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What could a ghost possibly do?”

  “Plenty,” my father replied. “Let’s say you want to drive someone out of a home. If you possess this gift, you can summon a spirit who might agree to haunt the home for you. They’re also very strong. Gather enough spirits together and they could lift an entire house if you wanted them to. But those are rather innocent examples.”

  “Are they capable of doing harm?”

  “If they wanted to, yes. It all depends on the spirit. Just like those still living, some spirits are good and some are evil. How a person behaved in life usually determines how they’ll be in the spirit realm. Fortunately, for centuries, the people with this gift mostly used it to entertain. So-called wizards and witches and conjurers. They were simply among the few who could cooperate with spirits.”

  “And some mediums,” I said, thinking of the instruments that had floated around Mrs. Pastor’s séance room.

  “And magicians,” my father added.

  He looked at me then, curious to see my reaction. I’m afraid I disappointed him, because I was too stunned to react much at all. Perhaps I blinked a few times, or gulped in surprise. But for the most part, I remained still, gripping the iron of the door like my life was at stake.

  “You?” I said, dumbfounded. “You possess this gift?”

  It all made sense then. The Amazing Magellan, after all, had gained world renown by floating over theater audiences and causing giant beasts to levitate. Yes, he created some illusions the old-fashioned way. Those tricks and sleights of hand were something I had seen and picked up over time. But the bigger illusions, the ones he practiced in secrecy, hadn’t been illusions at all.

  They were the work of the spirit world.

  “Many of the Amazing Magellan’s greatest tricks were helped by spirits in my employ,” my father confessed. “I had several of them, mostly beloved family members who had passed on long ago. But you’re wrong about one thing. I have never had the power to communicate with the dead.”

  He didn’t need to say any more. In that moment, I understood everything.

  “Mother did,” I said.

  My father nodded gravely.

  “I was called the Amazing Magellan, but she was the amazing one. It was all her, Columbus. She summoned the spirits and told them what to do. I simply made it look like magic.”

  “But how did she get this power?”

  “She was born with it,” my father said. “Some think it’s hereditary, so one of her parents most likely possessed it as well. I suspect they never even knew it.”

  “Hereditary,” I repeated, my voice made dull from shock.

  My father noticed the tone and stood. He approached the cell door slowly, his eyes aflame with worry.

  “Please, Columbus,” he said quietly. “Please tell me you didn’t inherit it from her. I beg of you, Son. Tell me you don’t have the same gift your mother had.”

  I longed to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear. He looked so concerned about me, his entire body coiled with fear, that I considered lying just to spare him from the truth. But I feared it would only silence him, and I needed to know more. Not just about my mother’s powers, but about my own.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “What have you noticed? What have you seen?”

  I told him everything then, from speaking with my mother to visions of long-dead friends roaming my bedroom. I talked of the table-tipping incident in which Lenora Grimes Pastor informed me of her murder and of the bee that had flown from her mouth, leading me back to Sophie Kruger. Finally, I described the séance at Lucy’s house, where Mrs. Pastor spoke through me, her voice becoming my own.

  “This is terrible,” my father said once I had finished. “You have no idea how much d
anger you’re in.”

  “But why?”

  “Because of the Praediti, of course!” he snapped. “Because of what they have planned.”

  I was plunged again into a pool of confusion. Every time my father began to make sense, he would suddenly veer off into nonsense.

  “What do they plan?”

  “Earlier, you asked if a spirit could cause harm,” my father said. “They can, if the spirit has enough ill will toward the living. Now, imagine if many people with this power summoned the most evil spirits they could find. Think of the damage they could cause.”

  “That’s what the Praediti want to do?” I asked. “What could causing damage possibly bring?”

  “Power,” my father said, unblinking. “Unbridled power, the likes of which man has never seen.”

  “But you said most people were like you and Mother, using it for tricks or conjuring.”

  “Which is all true,” he said. “Not everyone who shares the Praediti’s gifts shares their mind-set. There were many out there like your mother, content to use their gifts for innocent purposes. Some were eventually recruited by the Praediti through nefarious means. Those who refused to join were killed.”

  Of course. Join us or pay the consequences. Mrs. Pastor and Sophie Kruger had done just that.

  “How long have the Praediti been doing this?”

  “Quite some time. The first murder was fifteen years ago.” My father’s eyes rose to meet mine. “When they killed your mother.”

  His words entered me like a poison, forcing my blood into stillness.

  “That . . . that can’t be,” I said. “You killed her. You confessed to it.”

  “Yes,” my father said. “But only to protect you. The Praediti had been trying for years to recruit your mother. She refused to even consider the idea. To get away from them, we decided to tour the world. But they followed us. Then came the threats against your mother. When that didn’t work, they threatened me. After that, the Praediti threatened to go after what we loved the most—you. So we returned to Philadelphia to plan our escape, not just from them, but from the stage entirely. Our homecoming performance would also be our final one. After that, we were going to try to disappear, for real this time, and for good. Yet the Praediti learned about our plan.”

  “And they killed Mother.”

  My father, the once-amazing Magellan Holmes, nodded. A lifetime of sadness rested in that rise and fall of his head. My father was completely innocent. He loved my mother to the very end. Just like mine, his world had collapsed around him that long-ago Independence Day.

  Words can’t describe the sense of relief that washed over me. It was like a baptism, leaving me light and unblemished. Although I had begun to cry, releasing tears held back for fifteen years, it was from joy, not sorrow.

  “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I hated you for so long, Father. All those years, I despised you for something you didn’t do.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” my father quietly said. “It was for the best.”

  I wiped my face, my knuckles damp and salty. “Why did you take the blame? You’ve been here for so many years.”

  “Because I knew it would make things safer for you. With your mother gone and me in prison, I hoped the Praediti would simply leave you alone. That’s why you must continue the ruse you’ve already started. You must remain Edward Clark. You’re safe as long as they believe Columbus Holmes is dead.”

  His words might have made sense to him, but not to me. Now that I knew he was innocent, I wanted Magellan Holmes to be my father again, not a stranger rotting in a prison cell.

  “Tell me where to find them,” I said. “I’m friends with important people. We can bring the Praediti to justice.”

  My father managed a sad smile. “It’s not that simple, Columbus. There are too many of them.”

  “Then what about the person solely responsible for killing Mother? Do you know who did it? Was it Corinthian Black?”

  “No, although you are correct in one regard. We did know each other. We moved in the same circles, Corinthian and I. But we chose different paths.”

  “But did he kill Mother?” I asked, this time with more urgency.

  “I don’t know!” Magellan Holmes averted his eyes, too ashamed to look at me. “I never saw who did it. All I saw was your mother, already dead and floating in that godforsaken glass tank. Then I caught sight of someone running out of the theater. I ran, too, intent on catching them. But it was of no use. Your mother’s killer was too fast. I only got a few blocks before I realized what had really happened, and what I had to do. And that was to take the blame in order to protect you.”

  “So Mother’s killer could still be out there.”

  My father turned his back to me, unwilling to let me see his fear, his grief, his shame. “Most likely, yes.”

  “Then there’s still a chance we can catch him and prove your innocence,” I said. “You must tell me everything you remember about that night.”

  Thoughts tumbled through my mind as I already began to plan this great undertaking. I would recount to Barclay what my father had told me, and he would properly investigate. I would help, of course, using my resources at the Evening Bulletin and doing everything in my power to secure my father’s release.

  Yet the plan vanished when I looked into my father’s eyes. There was no spark there, no sign of hope.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Columbus,” he said. “And it’s useless. Nothing will change what happened.”

  “But we at least have to try,” I argued. “Do you plan on simply dying in here?”

  “I have resigned myself to my fate. If my incarceration guarantees your safety and allows you to live another day, then I’m prepared to stay right where I am.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue with me, Columbus,” my father said. “I made up my mind a long time ago.”

  I knew I could spend an entire year trying in vain to get him to change his mind. That stubborn willingness to put my well-being before his erased all the hate I had felt toward him. Now, I loved my father even more.

  “Can I at least visit you?” I said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The guards might get suspicious.”

  “So?” I said. “You’re the one behind bars. It’s not like I can break you out.”

  “But one of them might be aligned with the Praediti. Don’t you understand? They’re everywhere, Columbus. Their ranks are far-reaching. You cannot trust anyone.”

  I gripped the door of his cell again. My father did the same, weaving his fingers between mine. It was the first time we had touched in fifteen years, and I wanted the sensation to last fifteen more.

  “I’m going to visit you again,” I told him. “Whether you like it or not. Damn my safety.”

  He smiled at my stubbornness. Like father, like son.

  “You’d be putting yourself at risk,” he said. “Still, I would enjoy that very much. But let some time pass first. And remember: continue to live life as you already do. Do not bring suspicion upon yourself.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “I swear it.”

  I released the door, letting my fingers slide past my father’s own before pulling away for good. Then, giving Magellan Holmes one last glance, I departed.

  There was no sadness in my heart as I made the lengthy walk back to Callahan, waiting on the other end of the cell block. I knew I would see my father again soon enough. And if I had my way, it wouldn’t be in that godforsaken prison but in the comfort and freedom of my home.

  I had no intention of breaking my promise to him. I planned to live as I had been, going through life as Edward Clark. But also, I intended to learn all I could about the Praediti. I was going to find out who they were, where they were. And, when the time came, I would free my father and bring whoever killed my mother to justice.

  Because even though I was Edward Clark on the outside, inside I was a new man.

  I was once aga
in Columbus Holmes.

  POSTSCRIPT

  There you have it—my full account of the murder of Lenora Grimes Pastor and how it came to be that I helped solve it. And while some parts may seem fantastical, I assure you that it’s all true. I embellished nothing, for this particular tale needed no embellishment.

  And yet there’s still more to be told, for strange events continued to be a regular part of my life for quite some time thereafter. Much of it, however, can’t fit into a single volume. It would be far too heavy to lift and very easily wear out a reader’s welcome. This one is already too long as it is. So if you’ve made it this far, I thank and salute you.

  But there are a few things I feel compelled to mention, mostly because Isabel, my dear granddaughter, demands it. She’s been urging on—prodding might be more accurate—my progress all along, sometimes snatching pages from my hands before the ink has even dried on them. If she demands more, then more is what she shall get. She’s spoiled, that one. Takes after her grandmother.

  So, if you’ll allow an old man to ramble on for just a few pages more, I’ll tell you about what happened immediately after I left my father in that wretched prison cell. I returned home to Locust Street and found Stokely leaning against the stoop. Beneath his shirt, he later showed me, a bandage as wide as a pillowcase had been wrapped around his stomach. He also required a cane to help keep himself upright.

  “Mister Clark,” he said, mustering a smile even in his weakened state. “I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked, surprised to see him out of the hospital so soon. “Come in, come in.”

  Even with the cane, he needed my assistance, which I was glad to give. Although his breathing was shallow and his steps weak—and although he constantly winced in pain—he was alive, which was frankly better than what both of us had expected.

  “You should still be recuperating,” I said as I eased him into the most comfortable chair in the parlor.

  “I needed to thank you,” Stokely replied. “You saved my life, Mister Clark. Just as sure as Missus Pastor did.”

  I sat across from him, undeserving of his thanks. “You’re welcome, but there was no need to risk your health and come here. A letter would have sufficed.”