by R. J. Gadney
She was, when he put the question, standing at the edge of one of the lawns that had gone to seed, vainly trying to breathe some life into the mouth of a dying raven.
“Hal,” she whispered, her brow furrowed, settling the dying bird on a windowsill and then pressing her hands against her temples, whispering so softly he could barely hear her. “You have no acceptance of the spirit world, do you?”
He smiled and said regretfully she knew the answer: of course he didn’t.
She closed her eyes: “Please, I beg you, learn, please, to accept our living dead and their spirits as they are. You must welcome the feminine, the anima, into your soul.”
With her untidy white hair swept back and her white dress buttoned to her throat, her eyes raised to the heavens, he noticed her striking resemblance to the painting in the Chapel of Hildegard von Bingen, the twelfth-century Benedictine nun, composer of hypnotic Gregorian chants. And, as if some psychic message passed between them about the resemblance, she began to chant:
“He shall wipe away all tears from our eyes. And He will hold out in His right hand—seven stars: and out of His mouth will come a two-edged sword—and His countenance will shine as the sun shineth in His strength—and when we see His sign, we will fall at His feet as dead.”
With great suddenness her face changed from softness to a mask of heated accusation. “You’ve explored the recesses of the house?”
“What d’you mean?”
“You’ve found your way to the basement. To the storage vaults and crypt?”
“Never.”
She assumed the attitude of an inquisitorial Unholy Sister. “You know what the workshop of the spirit is?”
“Never heard of it.”
“You’re lying, Hal. Please—don’t lie to your mother …”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Earth? This is about more than earth. Your father is with the dead and the buried. He is the cartographer of the descent into hell. His is the route of the vertiginous rise from the dead. The ascent to the other side. From thence shall come the judgment of the quick and the dead. We believe in the life everlasting.”
They stood facing each other in silence broken only by the caw-caw of the crows. Presently she continued: “When I pass over, everything will be yours. Everything. As I’m responsible for your soul and body, Hal, I’m responsible for your future. You should know it by now. You’re mature enough to know. Your father, rest his spirit, according to the precepts of the Skoptsy … I will always be with you. In the spirit and in the flesh—protect me.”
He looked into her eyes and fear held him, unable to speak, sensing she wanted him to shield her and he had no earthly idea how to give her the protection she craved. Stooping almost double like a crone, she stared into the eyes of the dead raven, symbol of the spirit of King Arthur, and following his gaze she whispered: “The bird lives … its soul ascends.” And her shoulders began to shake.
“You go inside, Mother, and I’ll dispose of it.”
She wasn’t taking her eyes off the raven. “How?”
“In the rubbish bin.”
“No,” she whined. “Leave it be … Amen …” Quite out of control, the words tumbled from her mouth. “Mist … eternal night clouds the closing eyes. So the wings of freedom perish… here, where the spirit lives with us. Amen.”
“Mother—stop it.”
“We are one in flesh and blood. Do not abhor my womb. You are my beloved son in whom I am well pleased.”
“You’re not yourself. Please—come indoors …”
“I absolve you from your sins.”
“Mother …”
She drew away from him. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis.”
There was no point reasoning with her. She was both pitiable and frightening. And, there was no escaping from it, he loved her. It was unbearable.
He never again raised with her the subject of his father’s workshop of the spirit or its contents. It was, he imagined, as if he’d discovered a cache of love letters from the pair of them containing passages of an indelicate nature.
One day, he decided to put an end to the insufferable caw-caw chorus of the crows. Their tree roosts were filthy, their droppings shrouded leaves and bark. There were solitary soaring ravens out there too calling gronk-gronk.
He found the key to the Gun Room where his father had stored some ancient pistols and rifles, family relics from the Second Anglo-Boer War. A German Mauser automatic pistol, a Lee-Metford and two Lee-Enfield rifles. And among these museum pieces was the shotgun his mother had uncharacteristically been persuaded to buy for a temporary gamekeeper who’d insisted upon wiping out the crows and ravens. The weapon was a Holland & Holland Badminton double-barreled shotgun. It would serve to put an end to the crows. He might even bag a raven.
Before he removed the shotgun he opened a box marked THE NAVY KAMAKURA TENSHOZAN FORGING WORKSHOP. The box measured some twenty inches long. Inside it he found an original Second World War Japanese naval dagger and scabbard in mint condition. The blade was razor sharp.
A note in his father’s handwriting said that his father had bought the lethal-looking dagger in Osaka from a Mr. Zenjiro Hattori, dealer in swords. A further note read:
“Used in at least three recorded instances of disembowelment or evisceration: the removal of the gastrointestinal tract with a horizontal incision.”
Coated with images of cherry blossom, the dagger’s handle was wrapped in polished ray skin or shagreen, a popular finish for the handles of Japanese swords and daggers. Dyed bright green, the ray skin was bumpy, the protuberances like tiny pearls.
He did succeed in killing several dozen crows though no ravens.
Perhaps the ravens were sui generis and protected by numinous dread, the awe-fullness generated by the innermost chambers of the workshop of the spirit and he cursed.
“Let their spirits rot and perish, eat themselves away like some malignant, festering, legless larvae in the damp dark of the moldering bowels of The Towers.”
19
The wood fire Francesca had made crackled in the grate. Small sparks rose up the chimney. She had created a touching romantic corner in the Library taking pains to lay the table for two elaborately with the family silver cutlery, two silver candelabra, a centerpiece of holly in a low vase and white linen table napkins embroidered with the Stirling family crest.
He began to unpack the television. His plan was to have it up and running by the time Francesca brought dinner to the table. The television would create an air of normality. Neither the subterranean waters in the cellars nor the effects of polluted air would disturb the entertainment and diversions it had to offer.
Assembling the equipment made a comforting change from dismantling IEDs. The whole thing might have been something of the size of two ammunition boxes; the TV had no steel cylinders filled with plastic explosive: nitroglycerin with a stabilizing agent.
He skimmed the manual. INFORMATION FOR YOUR SAFETY INSTALLATION REMOTE CONTROL OPERATION
His fingers quivered. OPTIONAL EQUIPMENT CONNECTIONS MAIN MENU FEATURE CHART SPECIAL FEATURES LOCK
He reminded himself sharply that he was here in the Stirling Library, for God’s sake, unpacking a Christmas present of a TV for a ditsy nurse. A normal thing to do. Why was the Library so oppressive? Why are my hands shaking?
He shivered and straightened the loops of wires. He found himself looking quickly at the window. Something moved across the darkened glass.
He looked compulsively into the room’s darker recesses. What’s moving in the gloom?
He raised his head and listened to the low sounds coming from within the room that was the workshop of the spirit. Was that monstrous shrine to Sada Abe, after all these years, still there with the sickening image of Giotto’s, and any surviving descendant of that repulsive rat?
Had his mother dismantled the records of his father’s secret collection of amputated genitalia and morbid memorabilia?
He fought to contr
ol the twitching in his fingers and heard his mother pleading: “Won’t someone help me? I’m dying. Does no one understand? We are one in flesh and blood, my son … My beloved son in whom I am well pleased …”
Another voice called out: “Is anybody there?” Is that my father speaking? He heard his own voice plead: “Father, are you there?”
The pages of the instruction manual floated in front of his eyes: their pages raised by a sudden gust of cold air, the manual’s bland guidance followed across the world by millions of eager Panasonic customers.
This very ordinariness, the sheer reasonableness of explanation terrified him.
V-CHIP OPERATION: REMOTE CONTROL
Familiar, condescending, patient, free.
Come not to sojourn, but abide with me.
BUTTONS
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
DVD OPERATION
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee—
DVD SETUP MENUS
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee—
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
LANGUAGE CODE LIST
Then he saw the line of buttons: dwarf IEDs dancing as lighted figures on a Christmas tree, actually, silent grinning toothless tombstones … in a war cemetery, and they sang: “Captain Hal Stirling. Come to mommy, Hal. In life in death, the man who calls himself the bomb disposal expert.”
The two strange women finished undressing. Mother called: “Is anybody there?”
—whimpering
on and on. “Is anybody there?”
TROUBLESHOOTING CHART—TV
I see the blinding light. The explosion. Darkness. I actually see the pain.
THE KALEIDOSCOPE OF HORRIFIC FRAGMENTED IMAGES
TROUBLESHOOTING CHART—DVD
“Dinner’s ready,” Francesca was trilling. “Can I come in now?”
“Just a second. Hold on.”
Captain Von Trapp’s Austrian family home is restrictive and harshly disciplinarian. Maria soon finds that the children need love and singing and music. Maria and Captain Von Trapp fall hopelessly in love. Unfortunately, the Captain is engaged to another and Maria is a nun.
PRESS PLAY FOR MOVIE
PLAY starts but then stops immediately. Make sure disk is installed with label side up.
He flipped over the disk. Pressed PLAY. Fast-forwarded to the Overture.
“You can come in now.”
She wheeled in the trolley. “Hal … I can’t believe this.”
“Good, isn’t it?”
He froze the frame at the start of “The Hills are Alive …”
“Good?” she said. “It’s fantastic.”
“D’you want to watch it during or after supper?”
“After. Let’s eat before everything gets cold.”
She lifted the tray from the trolley, on it two dark candles, a dish of crushed herbs and a bowl of water, lit the candles and handed one to Hal. “Hold it and keep silence. Let your anger flow into it. If you feel tears coming let them fall. Together now …”
They sat in silence for several moments.
Then she said: “Lower your candle slowly into the water.” She sprinkled the herbs. “Watch it flow around the candles counterclockwise. Now repeat after me: ‘By fire’s power, we banish anger and all fear and hatred. We turn evil into love. For one another. Hal and Francesca here tonight. Harming none of the Living Dead. We protect each other in soul and body. One being. One love. So the Living Dead will harm not us. We light the Ylang Ylang candles and part the moist lips of our psychic centers. Our wormwood and sandalwood scents summon eternal spirits to our mansion. Ylang Ylang now opens our bodies that they may receive each other and be united. Two souls in one. One in two. Two in One. In spirit and in flesh. Hal in whom I am much pleased.’”
She remained silent awhile and then said softly: “You’re much better, Hal. Ours is a symbol perfected in the eternity of death. And all shall be well; all manner of things shall be well by the purification of the motive in the ground of our beseeching. Let us break bread.”
She turned out to be a better cook than her mother. “You’ve got your appetite back. It’s a good sign.”
“The casserole is good, very good.”
“Shame Mom isn’t here. Tell you what, though. The snow won’t beat Ryker. He’ll get through, you see. I heard him talking with Mom about it and the days he had a job up the Moster gravel pits. They’d get through in all sorts of weather. And there are the back roads too. Tracks and that sort of thing. Ryker’s good in emergencies and he’d do anything for Mom. Don’t you think Mom’s beautiful? Touchy-feely too. I sometimes think it’s a pity Ryker’s married. They look good together. He makes her laugh. That’s the way to a woman’s heart.”
“How long have they known each other?”
“Since they were kids. And Mr. Warren has an eye for her. What with the séances they hold together. In Carlisle. At The Hallmark.”
Was that the explanation for the tryst he’d witnessed?
“One thing leads to another,” Francesca said. “That’s what séances are all about, isn’t it? Everyone knows everyone. Especially in these parts. You should know. I mean, even out here, you must’ve got to know everyone in your time.”
“Our family kept itself to itself. What with being away at school, the Army and things, I seem to have spent most of my life away.”
“That’ll change now, won’t it? With you taking the place over. I daresay a lot will change.”
“I want to keep things running smoothly. Mr. Warren’s people will see to that.”
“He knows the place inside out, doesn’t he? And so does that assistant of his. Sophie. Miss Peach. She was up here most days when you were down south.”
“She was?”
“Busy-busy-busy. Drawing up plans. Making lists. Taking photographs. She inspected all the towers. Up and down the stairs. Around and around. Up the ladders. All the attics. She’d come back down filthy. Covered in dust. She and Ryker even went out on the roofs. Ryker said they’re in a terrible state of repair. What will you do, Hal, if you have to sell all of this?”
“I don’t intend to sell a thing.”
She smiled. “Reckon the ghosts know that?”
He laughed. “Do you think that ghosts ever ask the owners of the house they haunt whether they intend to sell? I don’t think so.”
“But you believe in ghosts, don’t you? The spirits and all?”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do. So does Mom. Like Priscilla. We’ve all of us seen them.”
“Where?”
She pointed at the ceiling. “Up there.”
“What did they look like?”
“It was a she when I saw her. Mostly this woman. Barefoot. Looked to me like an oriental. Wearing a kimono. A silk kimono tied with a band around the waist. Very white face and red lips. There was quite a strong smell around her. Patchouli incense. Mom said it was definitely Patchouli. She smelled it too. But she wasn’t there with me. She saw the same woman the next Monday. I’d seen her on the Monday previous, like I said, the week before. On the Monday when Mom saw her, I’d gone down to the pub in Moster Lees. Except for Priscilla, Mom was here on her own. She wasn’t scared though. Not like I was. Mom asked Priscilla about it next day and Priscilla perked up and said the woman often appears. Always of a Monday. Except one day in the year—even if it isn’t a Monday—and that’s May the eighteenth. May the eighteenth’s some sort of special day for her, so Priscilla said. And your father knew about a very special anniversary of something or other for the woman. She’s a spirit your father took a great interest in all his life. She didn’t just come here unannounced.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean your father, you know, he asked her here, didn’t he? He’d communicated with her in séances
and she spoke to him. Then she came here at Christmas. I mean she was a special Christmas visitor. You know, the regular Christmas visitor. That’s what your mom said. ‘It brings back memories,’ Priscilla said. ‘My wonderful husband adored her to distraction. They achieved an ecstasy of Platonic love. They were inseparable.’ See, your dad … well, I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Telling me what?”
“Well, you know, there were two women in his life. Seems the Stirling men—they all had two women in their lives, didn’t they? Anyways, when your dad and his woman … when they left this world … each became a dove. You know why? See, the gods what they call transubstantiated the willow pattern lovers into doves and the two of them stay up in the sky flying for eternity.”
Hal was searching his memory to find the significance of the eighteenth of May. 1936? It rang a bell. Had it been a Monday? There was, however, an error of sorts in Francesca’s bizarre account. She had the origin of the Willow Pattern legend wrong.
“It’s so lovely,” she said and tears formed in her eyes.
They both heard the sound at the same time. Someone, something was tapping at the window.
FIVE
Alone upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky—
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.
RUDYARD KIPLING
“THE LOVE SONG OF HAR DYAL”
20
“What is it?” Francesca said.
“The wind.”
“It’s at the window.”
There it was again.
“What is it?” Francesca said.
This time the tapping was louder.
“There’s someone out there,” she said.
He walked to the window and looked out.
There was blackness, not simply darkness, blackness. Then whiteness. And in the window’s glass, his own face staring at him. His eyes wide. “There’s something there.”
“What is it?”
