by Wolf, Jack
“She is the Rule by which they abide. An she decide to do a Thing, they will never oppose it.”
The Gypsy turned her Face to me again. Surely, I thought, she is by far the prettiest Girl in the whole of Berkshire, let alone the Assembly. I wondered if Nathaniel had previously been sitting with her upon the fireside Seat. A small Spark of Envy flickered in my Bowels. I looked into her black Eyes and the Spark began to flame. I remembered the clear blue Arc of her Song, stretching sinuously over the mortal Gabble of the Crowd. One pure Note, viscerally thrilling, as painfull as it was beautifull.
“Yes, Nat,” I said. “We will take her home.”
Nathaniel had the pony-Chaise brought from the Yard, and while he drove the Gypsy sate upon my Lap. I understood now from the easy Familiarity of their Discourse that they were more than Kin. Indeed, I could not doubt but that the Gypsy Girl was Nathaniel’s Mistress, and that their Arrangement must be of considerable Duration and Standing. That they had been murmuring together in the Hadean Darkness of the upper Room was now more than Conjecture; I was certain of it. Every Expression upon the Countenance of one was reflected upon the other; every movement echoed. Yet if the Thing they shared was Love, it was Love of a Species previously unknown to me, for the Gypsy made it clear by minute Gestures that the present Target of her Affections was not Nathaniel, but My Self; and Nathaniel shewed as plainly in his own Looks that he both knew and approved of her Design. He was neither jealous nor possessive, nor would he seek to curb her wild Behaviour, Mistress or Lover or Whore or whatever she was.
I placed my Hands upon her Ribcage to steady her as the Chaise lurched and jolted thro’ the darkling Night. For a Time I could detect no Heartbeat, then, finally, I thought I found it, the rhythmic Thud of vital Force. I closed mine Eyes and pictured the convulsing Organ beneath the sixth and seventh Ribs, drumming, drumming.
Nathaniel was not jealous, no; but I was.
I began to understand that I wanted to possess this untameable Thing; to control and subdue her, bend her fully to my Will, my Desire, my Rule. I felt the Palms of mine Hands begin to sweat.
The Thought came on me, unbidden: How would it feel to break her? To hurt her, to force her to cry out.
“Monstrous,” I said, aloud.
The Gypsy Girl laughed at something Nathaniel was saying, and clappt her Hands. I held on to her more tightly.
A Phrenzy of vile Images beset mine Imagination, tumbling one upon another. I looked upon the Gypsy Girl, and she was naked and bound upon a vertically rotating Wheel; her Arms and Legs were spread into four Points of a Star, and her Head became the fifth. Her pure Skin was bloody from an hundred whip-Cuts. The Phantasm changed: I beheld her pinned open on mine own dissecting Board, her inner Parts brightly shining. Now she was no more than her own poor Self at mine Hands, weeping and screaming to me, in God’s Name, to cease.
I will hurt her, I thought.
“Stop the Chaise,” I shouted. “We must put her off!”
“Are you mad? Damned if I shall—we are almost at the Hall.”
I want to hurt her, I thought.
CHAPTER SIX
When we reached Shirelands everything was quiet. With great Caution that it should remain so, Nathaniel and I unhitched the Pony and stabled him in an empty Box. Then Nathaniel took mine Hand upon one Arm and the Gypsy’s on the other, and we made our Way with much nauseous Yearning upon my Part and suppresst Laughter on hers into the kitchen Pantry, where Nathaniel began to search for the Keys to the wine Cellar. “Don’t blame me,” he said, emerging with a Bottle of port Wine in each Hand. “This is all we have; the old Witch keeps the cursed Keys about her. No Matter. Do you see if you can find some Tankards for us—unless you will drink from the Bottle.”
“Egad, no,” I answered, crossing the Kitchen in a Hurry and returning with three pewter Vessels from the Servants’ Shelf. “I am no Savage.”
Nathaniel filled all three to the Brim and we retreated to the Garden. The Sky was beginning slowly to brighten above the yew-Hedge to the East; Dawn must not be more than an Houre away. Soon the first Birds would start, the chill Aire soften, and the Girl run back to her People. We sate upon the wooden arbour Seat, our Coats wrappt tight about us, and I began to allow My Self a little Hope that all would end up well. Then the Gypsy complained that she had emptied her Cup; Nathaniel agreed that his was dry, too, and before I could prevent it he was up and heading toward the Pantry in search of another Bottle.
“Nat, stay!” I shouted, scrambling to my Feet. “For the Lord’s Sake, stay!”
Nathaniel laughed. “Don’t be a Gelding!”
So I was left alone with her under an indigo Sky, empty even of its waning Moon. She turned and spoke, for the first Time, to me: “What’s your Name?”
Do not give her your Name, Nathaniel had told me. So I said: “Caligula.”
“Caligula,” she repeated. “That is not your Name.”
“’Tis the Name you may call me by.”
“I see you have been well warned,” she answered, laughing. “You may call me, in your own Turn, Viviane.”
“Viviane.”
“Walk with me, Caligula,” Viviane said, rising to her Feet. “Shew me what lies beyond these prickly Hedges of yours. Shew me which Way lies the Horse.”
“That would be a bad Idea,” I said.
“Are you afraid of me?” Viviane asked.
“No.” But I am terrified of My Self.
The Lust to hurt her—to hurt Viviane—was growing stronger with every Second that passed. Moreover, learning her Name had only increased the Ache in mine Hands and in my Loins to such a dreadful Intensity that I could not foresee how I was to deny it. Pure Evil, the Tutor had said. Devilish, said the Rector.
“Shew me,” Viviane said. “Or are you, after all, a Mouse?” She began to walk towards the Ha-ha.
“There are only Fields and Woods,” I said, struggling not to follow her. “We do not even have a Lake.”
Viviane steppt thro’ the rickety wooden Gate that led into the Ha-ha. Beyond her sate the low Stile into the High Field where Nathaniel and I had once watched strange Lights travelling upon the Ridge. “Come,” she said, and put her Foot upon the lowest Step. She paused, her slender Form a deep Shaddowe against the pre-Dawn violet of the eastern Sky. “Will you come?” she repeated, and she held out her right Hand, as one might to a reluctant and unhappy Child.
I passed thro’ the Gate and stood beneath the Hawthorns in the Blackness of the Ditch, close by her. Seated as she now was upon the topmost Step of the Stile, her Mouth was upon a Level with mine own, and I could taste her Breath. I began to hear, as if from far away, the old, familiar Drumming. Could it truly be, as I had been told, within mine own Head? It was the Drumming of Viviane’s Heart, of Nathaniel’s Snare; the Drumming of an Army marching south. It was the Sound of Hoofbeats underneath the Surface of the Earth.
Closer, now, and loud, so loud it deadened every Thought save this: I must subjugate this Woman, this Viviane.
I reached forward and seized her Hand by its slim Wrist, then dragged her roughly from the Stile. She gave a Cry of Surprize. I caught her before she could hit the Earth and spun her round so that her Back was turned toward me. I felt the small Bones of the Carpus shift within her Hand as I twisted it between her Scapulae. It must have hurt; Viviane shrieked.
A dark Joy flooded thro’ me. Everything made Sense. Here, at this Extremity of Passion beyond Delight and Fear, Release was possible. I forced Viviane onto her Knees and placed my free Hand upon the Vertebrae of her Neck, pressing her Face down to the Path. The Drumming continued, but softly, softly. As I controlled her, so I was not afraid of it.
Was this it—this, this Pain, the Mystery that had been absent from mine Intercourse with Margaret Haynes?
Yet as I began to feel that I might attain some Catharsis, a sudden Horrour at what I was, at what this Lust, this evil Need must surely make of me, caused my Senses to spin and mine Hands to grow weak. As suddenly as I h
ad taken Hold, I released my Grip from Viviane. She lost her Balance and tumbled forwards upon the Stones. I sate back upon mine Heels. In Truth, I did not know what to do next. The evil Passion had exhausted itself.
The Drumming rolled on; low, incessant, victorious.
Viviane sate up, sucking her injured Hand, and punched me hard in the Mouth with the other, so that my Lip began to bleed.
“You dare to harm me?” she hissed. “Me, who would have lain with you without Force? Me?”
“I am sorry,” I whispered.
“Not enough. You will pay for it, Caligula.”
“Is that a Gypsy’s Curse?” I said.
Viviane rose to her Feet. She climbed the Stile, and I could see her clear Shape for a Moment against the blue Glow of the eastern Sky. Then she turned her Back on me, and her Body seemed to undergo a Metamorphosis, shrinking small; silent Pinions sprouted in place of her Hands, silken soft Feathers her white Gown.
Owl she became, White Owl; she spread her Wings and soared away from me, over the High Field towards the South.
I did not see that, I thought. It is impossible.
Nausea at the Act I had lately performed began to seep inside me. I struggled to my Feet and staggered over to the Stile, searching frantickly with mine Eyes in all Directions for the Gypsy Girl, who I knew must be there, somewhere. “Where is she?”
Impossible, impossible; and yet I had seen her change, seen her as clearly as I saw mine own Fingers atop the wooden Bar of the Stile. More clearly, certainly, than I had seen those dark contorted Bodies in the upper Room. More clearly than I had seen Nathaniel, wound so tight he must spring free or break, in that Moment before we had entered the Bull. Should I disbelieve the Evidence of mine own Eyes? No. But yes; for if I did not, then I had witnessed the Impossible, and I must be a mad Man. But, if this was not real, if Viviane had not transformed into an Owl, and flown from me, then where was she? The Dawn was rising and the Light was grey and cold, the Sky in the East the deep blue of a Sapphire streaked with violet and crimson. Surely sufficient Light to perceive her, running thro’ the High Field, her black Cloak a dark Star? There was no Sign, no Trace upon the dewy Grass or in the quiet Aire.
How can she fly, I thought, with a dislocated Wing?
“Viviane!” I shouted. “Viviane!”
I felt the Shock, the Countryside recoiling. My Voice was an Intrusion; too harsh, too Human in this Stillness. I steppt back from its Echo.
A cock Pheasant cried out in the Valley; up in the hawthorn Trees a Chaffinch began to trill. May Morning, and a beautifull one; yet in every Chirp and upon every budding Stem I could perceive only a terrible Accusation.
“I don’t believe in Curses!” I cried.
No Answer. Nothing.
As I stood there, it came to me that Nathaniel must presently be returning with the Wine, and that I had no Idea what I should say to him to explain that Viviane was gone. I feared that telling the whole Truth might cause him to turn from me with the same Repugnance that had infected the Notes of the Chaffinch. And if I were to tell him that I had seen her become an Owl, then even he must surely doubt my Sanity. Who would not?
I had, it appeared, one Choice. I must discover Nathaniel and tell him that Viviane had run away across the High Field and I was not able to perswade her to come back again. I would tell him truly that we had fought—I would not tell him why.
In Truth, that Question: Why?—was something I could not fathom for My Self. Why had I hurt the Gypsy Girl? It had not been thro’ Hate, nor even Dislike.
When I laid mine Hands on her, I thought, I became truly alive.
I hastily quitted the Ha-ha, retracing my Steps over the Lawn, to the arbour Seat, from which Location I beheld Nathaniel returning empty handed from the Kitchens, seeming from his Hat to his Shoes as if he had been cast in Silver.
“Tristan Hart, what hath happened?” he said, approaching me. “Blood on your Face for the second time tonight, and this Time ’tis your own.”
“Viviane is gone. We had a Disagreement,” I said.
“Aha. She can box better than a doe Hare when the Mood is upon her.”
“She ran into the Field. Do you know where she hath gone?”
“To her Kin. I shall follow her, and see her safe Arrival.”
“How do you intend to find her? I can see no Sign.”
“I have better Eyes than you, and she better Ears than both of us. I shall call her from the Road and she will come to me.”
I rose hurriedly to my Feet. “Your Father’s Chaise is in the Stable; your Pony, too. I will help you make ready.”
“No need. I require but the Pony, and he will be quick bridled. Someone will come for the Chaise tomorrow, I suppose.”
“Are you not going home?”
Nathaniel turned to me, and caught hold of the Biceps of mine Arms. “I am going home,” he said. I was struck once more by the strange Notion of something long suppresst, being on the Point at last of flying free.
“’Tis Pity you did not please her,” Nathaniel said. “I had hoped to bring you with us.”
“Do not teaze me, Nat.” I said.
To mine Amazement, Nathaniel steppt forwards and embraced me heartily. “I love you, Tristan,” he said. “I will miss you. If ever you have Need of me, send Word by Owl, or Cat, or Hare, and I shall answer you mine own Self, if ’tis possible for me to do so.”
I began to think that Nathaniel must be extreamly drunk. The Conceit gave me Confidence. Perhaps he would not find Viviane; perhaps even if he did, she would be every Bit as foxed as he was, and would not recall what had taken place between us. Perhaps I was, My Self, more drunk than I had thought, and it was that, only that, which had caused me to act so abominably, and witness an impossible Transformation from a Woman to a white Owl.
“Nat,” I said, disentangling My Self. “Go home. You are as piddled as a Newt. I shall visit you within a Daye or two. You are not going up to Oxford until September, and when you do we will not need the Wildlife to carry Letters.”
“I am not piddled,” Nathaniel said. “But you are. Get you to Bed, Tris. Go, go. I shall see you soon enough.”
Nathaniel smiled, a dazzling, glittering Smile of such Anticipation and Delight his Eyes changed from jade to emerald. As if he were bound upon some great and wild Adventure, I thought. Then he bowed, in his customary mocking Fashion, and began to run with great Alacrity towards the Stable Blocks; and I lost Sight of him.
* * *
I did not go to bed. The Drumming in mine Ears, and the Agitation of my Thoughts, had put Sleep out of the Question, and I dared not rest for Fear of witnessing again that dreadful Incident with Viviane. And all the Time the Drums grew louder, till I wondered that I could still hear mine own Thoughts. It mattered naught now whether they were within or without mine Head. I began to hypothesise that even if they were indeed within, Phantoms of mine own Delusion or Creation, then there nevertheless must be another Human Spirit on the Planet who could hear them, somewhere.
I considered for a Moment returning to my Study and concluding the Dissection of my Rat, but I was afraid that I might be too drunk properly to compleat the Procedure. I had Wish to remove neither another foetal Appendage nor any one of mine own Fingers if mine Hand should slip. I thought that I had better search thro’ my Library for some Material that I might find soothing in my present State; but then I realised that there was nothing on my Shelves that could bring about that Effect.
The Remembrance fell upon me of how, when it had been my Mother’s sitting Room, and she yet alive, I had crept in sometimes to hear her singing in both her own old Castilian Tongue and in the Dutch as she embroidered Flowers upon my Father’s Waistcoats before the Fire, or painted them from Life before the south Window.
“Blanca sos, blanca vistes,
Blanca la tu Figura.
Blancas flores caen di ti,
De la tu hermozura”
White art thou, white thou seemst,
White is t
hy Figure;
White Flowers tumble from thy Beauty.
White Owl.
I wheeled abruptly, directing my Feet away from the House. I was heading back toward the Inn, altho’ I was barely conscious of that. I needed People, Movement, Light. This I knew instinctively, without Reason, as a Swallow knoweth to fly the Country when the Harvest is all done. Life—only Life—would banish from my Head the tormenting Sounds and Images of the Night. I ran along the Road, ignoring the Mud that gradually covered my Shoes and Stockings, striving to maintain my Balance thro’ the Ruts. I ran until my Lungs felt hard afire. I was fleet away from Shirelands towards Humanity; toward the plain Simplicity of Margaret Haynes with her open Affections and her open Legs.
I reached the Inn of the Bull before the Cocks had finished crowing. The Sunne had risen. May Daye poured across the brown Earth, and every Daiseye turned east to receive it. Soon the village Children, and those of the Estate, would begin their yearly March across the uninclosed Fields from House to House, until they arrived at Shirelands Hall; where Mrs H. would bind together sharp Sprays of blackberry Stems and whirl them furiously round her Head to chase the wicked Goblins out. Then she, on behalf of everyone, would offer Honey and a Bowl of Curds to the kind Gentry, and beg their generous Assistance for another Half a Yeare. When I, once, had asked her wherefore she did this, Mrs H. had explained that May Daye and All Soules’ were special Times when the Veil between Worlds grew thin; when the Faeries, and those unfortunate Bodies whom they had stolen away, could cross or return into this one, to do Good or Ill to those who called upon them. I did not mock this Superstition, but it always perplext me that she refused to go the whole Hog on May Morning and ask the Gentry for a full Twelvemonth. It would have seemed to me better Economy.
So here I was, bent double, breathless beneath the Sign of the Bull in the golden morning Light. The Inn was already stirring. Windows were thrown open above, and from one descended the rough Sound of a Woman coughing. I hurriedly leapt away from the Wall lest the Coughing be followed by the Contents of the chamber Pot, but nothing happened. Plainly, the Bull’s Daughters were Betties of the nicer sort.
