The Jekyll Revelation

by Robert Masello

  Rather than remonstrating with her yet again, I let it pass. This twitchy discord between my wife and my closest friend, both rivals for my attention and affection, is simply something to be borne. Henley and I have been friends now since 1875, when Leslie Stephen, the editor of the “Cornhill Magazine,” suggested I come along to pay a visit to a friend of his who was undergoing a long and painful ordeal at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh.

  ‘A braver man, and a greater stoic, you will never meet.’

  What he had not prepared me for was the veritable force of nature that greeted us as we entered the ward. ‘What is it this time, Stephen?’ Henley bellowed. ‘Am I late submitting my review?’ Gesturing at his lower trunk, he added with a laugh, ‘I’m not getting around as I used to.’

  That he could endure what I saw—one leg had been amputated just below the knee, and the other was swaddled in bandages and elevated in a sling—was surprising enough, but that he could make light of it, and maintain such a buoyant spirit, was miraculous indeed.

  ‘And who is this scarecrow you’ve brought along to gawk at me?’

  Stephen introduced us, and Henley put out a meaty hand to shake. ‘I know you by your scribblings,’ he said. ‘All you need is a good editor to trim your excesses.’

  ‘Perhaps I just found one.’

  ‘A bright lad,’ Henley said to Stephen, though the man could not have been more than a year or two older than I.

  The rest of our conversation revolved around the wretched life of the writer—an endlessly popular topic among members of this caste—and once Henley had been released from the hospital, where an enterprising physician named Dr Joseph Lister had been able, after multiple surgeries, to salvage the remaining leg, we continued in that vein, and many others. Stumping about town on his one leg, a wooden crutch thrust under his strong right arm, Henley became a notable fixture on the London literary scene, forever popping up like some jack-in-the-box, as editor of one publication or another, or penning an unforgettable ode. Out of that dreadful sequester at the infirmary, where the complications of tuberculosis had claimed his leg, he wrote the poem ‘Invictus’, a cri de coeur whose last stanza has become the rallying cry of all who must face impossible odds: ‘It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.’

  In my own darkest hours, I have had occasion to recall those lines, even as I struggled to assert them.

  Lloyd being away at school, it was only Fanny and I who rendezvoused with Henley at Humphreys’s Hall, within whose cavernous confines the entire Japanese Village had been erected. It was a great feat of engineering—my father would have been much impressed—and succeeded brilliantly in transporting its patrons, who came by the thousands, from a dreary stretch of London to a rural hamlet in medieval Japan. The organizer of the exhibition, a Mr Tannaker Buhicrosan, had populated his mythical village with over a hundred Japanese men and women, all attired in their national garb, going about their native crafts in tiny shops and houses, all laid out in the most picturesque fashion, along winding walkways, past ornamental gardens, and over delicately wrought, rustic footbridges. At its centre stood a red-and-gold Buddhist temple, fantastically decorated and illuminated by a flotilla of Japanese lanterns. Fanny, I could see, was quite taken, even going so far as to try to engage some of the workers in a commercial transaction—she had her heart set on a silken kimono being woven before her eyes—but was gently discouraged.

  ‘You’d think they would try to turn a profit,’ she harrumphed.

  ‘That’s a very American concept,’ Henley could not resist putting in. ‘Sometimes, things are done simply for their cultural value.’

  The battle was joined yet again.

  The teahouse itself was a humbler affair, but deliberately so. Hewn of bamboo and wood left unpainted and unvarnished, it was entered through a small anteroom, where coats and scarves and boots were exchanged for simple homespun robes with wide sleeves, and thin cotton slippers. This was the first of many problems to confront poor Henley, who sat on a stone bench to wrestle off his one boot, then pull on a slipper before holding up its mate and asking, ‘Anyone need a spare?’

  After a pretty young maid, whose chevelure of jetty black was pinned with pink blossoms, instructed us, in halting English, to perform a ritual purification by rinsing our hands in a basin of cold water, we were guided to a low doorway, through which we had to virtually crawl in order to enter the inner sanctum. Henley was once more nonplussed, but plunked himself down and scooted backwards into the room, tooting like a locomotive whistle. Judging from the expression on the face of the tea master who waited within, I had the distinct impression that we had committed a gross faux pas.

  ‘Beg pardon,’ Henley said.

  The master, an elderly man with skin the colour of old ivory, bowed silently, and once we were each seated on a thickly woven tatami mat, began the ceremony, explaining each step, and even each utensil. Nothing, it appeared, was left to chance or accident—everything from the scroll on the wall to the placement of the brazier carried some greater meaning. The cup was not at all what I might have expected; it was neither fine nor delicate, but rough pottery, the colour of mud, and with many imperfections. These irregularities, we were told, were to be admired; the goal of the ritual was to encourage serenity and reflection, to focus the thoughts on nature and not on ornament. Even Henley’s ebullient demeanour had soon been tamed, and he gave himself over to the admiration of the foreign that I have always felt.

  For her part, Fanny was polite and attentive, but as I could tell from the way she kept shifting her weight on the mat, increasingly impatient. The measured progress of the event, so unlike the sweets and chatter of an English tea, began to wear on her. No doubt she was eager to return to the narrow lanes outside, where she still harboured hopes of buying something.

  By the time the ceremony had been brought to an end, she was all but rolling towards the little doorway, scrambling through to the anteroom and pulling on her shoes. ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ she said to the maid in the kimono, even as she thrust her arms back into her coat. ‘A wonderful experience, quite wonderful,’ and then she was out of the teahouse altogether.

  Henley, still wrestling his boot on, said, ‘I think I’ve got enough material for a very fine column, maybe even two.’ As the maid, bowing, ducked back into the tearoom, he drew on my sleeve to bring my ear closer and whispered, ‘And what do you make of that little lotus blossom?’

  ‘Quite lovely.’

  ‘Good God, man, is that all you can say?’

  ‘All I dare say here.’

  ‘Well, I dare say she’s as pretty as any chorus girl mincing her way across the stage of the Savoy.’

  ‘I heard that Gilbert and Sullivan brought the Mikado cast here, to study the gestures and comportment of the true Japanese.’

  ‘Damn their eyes, those two. There’s no reason they should have yet another bonanza, while you and I crank out poems and stories and newspaper columns that vanish the next day.’ Slapping his crutch under his arm, he said, ‘Have I told you my latest inspiration?’

  ‘There are so many, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Treasure Island.’

  ‘What of it?’ The novel, shepherded by Henley, had first appeared in serialized fashion in “Young Folks Magazine” three years earlier, and, once it had been published as a book, has gone on to great success, with editions published—though often unpaid for—all over the world.

  ‘As a play!’ he exulted. ‘We could adapt it! Think of the money it could make if presented as a Christmas treat! Better than the pantos! Louis, we’re sitting on a gold mine.’

  And sit on it, we shall, I thought. I had already travelled down this road with Henley—our play about the burglar Deacon Brodie had opened, and swiftly closed, in Edinburgh the year before—and had little intention of doing so again. Fanny saw Henley’s attempts to turn me towards the stage as a waste of my tale
nts, and a means of simply binding my rising fortunes to his. On the first score, she may have been right—such abilities as I have do not seem to lend themselves to the limited scope of a proscenium arch—but on the second, I felt she had unjustly impugned the man’s integrity. Henley is an enthusiast, not a conniver.

  Outside, the crowds were still milling about, but across the pathway, Fanny was in an animated conversation with a couple whom I could not distinguish at first.

  ‘By the by, Oscar Wilde is up to his old tricks again,’ Henley remarked. ‘Did you see his piece in the “Pall Mall Gazette”? It’s unsigned, but unmistakably his.’

  I had not, but as a trio of women in hats the size of sofas finally moved past, I saw that the man, a dashing figure in a dark-blue cutaway, was none other than Randolph Desmond and that the flame-haired woman on his arm was Constance Wooldridge. I had not seen them since the Belvédère, and found, upon encountering them now, a welter of conflicting feelings arising in my breast. Glad to see old comrades in arms, as it were, but at the same time sorry to have this reminder of my long-standing debility.

  ‘Louis!’ Desmond called out, raising a furled umbrella in salutation.

  Introductions were made all around, and Henley, quite unbidden, treated everyone to a preview of the columns he would write about the tea ceremony before excusing himself to gather more ‘local colour’ for the article.

  ‘You look fully restored,’ Desmond said to me, though it was far from the truth. I could not exactly return the compliment, however, as it had never been clear what was wrong with him, or his consort.

  ‘Is this your first visit to the exhibition?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ Fanny replied, ‘though it won’t be our last. There’s been so much to take in.’

  ‘We’ve been three times,’ Desmond said, ‘though I’ll confess that the last one was under duress. Constance swears by the green tea they serve in the pavilion.’

  After several minutes of comparing our impressions of the Japanese Village, Desmond happened to mention that Lloyd, too, was looking well these days, catching me quite off-guard. Fanny, too, it seemed.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’ Desmond said. ‘I was in Bedfordshire a week or two ago, and dropped by to make sure he was applying himself to his studies.’ He smiled, adding, ‘Perhaps he’s been too diligent to write you. That must be it.’

  I will confess to getting a slightly uneasy feeling about what should have been quite anodyne news. Randolph Desmond was a gentleman, from a wealthy and well-respected family, and it should have come as pleasant tidings that he had looked up young Lloyd.

  ‘As he was on a school break, I took him on a brief jaunt to the sea,’ he added, bolstering my misgivings. ‘Please don’t tell me he deceived me about the break.’

  ‘I’m sure not,’ I said, though I was anything but.

  ‘Will you join us for the green tea?’ Desmond said, gesturing towards the pavilion at the rear of the great hall.

  ‘Please, do,’ Constance said. ‘And invite your friend to join us, too.’ She looked around, in search of Henley.

  ‘We’d love to,’ Fanny said, ‘but I’m afraid I am already awash in tea.’

  And reuniting with Henley was the last thing she would want.

  ‘But you must come and see us,’ Fanny added. ‘We’re at Cavendish Square now. Number forty.’ Stating the address gave her evident pleasure.

  On the way out, and to Fanny’s dismay, we bumped into Henley again, who said to me in passing, ‘That friend of yours—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has a visit been paid to the House of Cyclax?’

  Located on Bond Street, Cyclax was a popular purveyor of ladies’ skin creams.

  ‘Oh, you mean Constance,’ I replied, though it seemed impossible, as her face was such a translucent white that the veins stood out in blue.

  ‘No, no, I mean the fellow.’

  ‘That hardly seems likely.’

  ‘Then it could have been a trick of the lamplight in there,’ Henley said with a shrug. ‘That, or perhaps he runs in that crowd of fops with our outrageous Mr Wilde.’

  Although I took his meaning—it was hard to miss—I knew he was mistaken. But not altogether wrong. For all his breeding, there was something unmistakably louche about Desmond, something I feared was already rubbing off on the impressionable young Lloyd.

  TOPANGA CANYON—CALIFORNIA

  Present Day

  Rafe had been up and walking since the first rays of the sun hit the top of his tent, making the blue nylon shine. In weather like this, you wanted to get as much traveling done in the early morning hours as possible. The noonday sun would be unbearable.

  Besides, he needed to get the rest of Diego’s triangulation done as quickly as he could; the coyotes were always on the move, and already he’d left more time than was advisable between gathering all his coordinates. Luckily, it turned out that he was closer than he thought; the signal was clear, and when he’d finished his calculations, he discovered that the pack was not far off. Now it was just a matter of hauling himself and his supplies—enough for one more night—within striking distance. He had his binoculars around his neck and his cell phone camera at the ready.

  Keeping a close eye on the ground for any signs of prints or scat, he found his thoughts turning to the mysterious journal he’d been reading the night before. Between the difficulty of deciphering the idiosyncratic handwriting and the bone-deep weariness that came from an entire day of trooping through the canyon, he hadn’t been able to get through much, but the pages that he had read, before turning off the lantern, had been fascinating. They reminded him of all those old books he’d devoured, from the dusty shelves of the shelters and facilities. They were all classified as books for young readers, or some such, and most of them looked like they’d been donated by rich old white people who’d read the books themselves when they were young. But the illustrations in some of them—The Last of the Mohicans, Ivanhoe, Kidnapped—had enchanted him, and a lot of them he could still envision, in every detail. Those stories had been even better than the constellations at transporting him to a faraway place.

  Before the accident, Lucy had enjoyed them, too.

  The Santa Anas were blowing again today, making the hot dry air even hotter and drier. Sitting in the relative shade of a nearly leafless tree, he leaned back against the trunk and took a swig of Gatorade from his canteen. Warm, it wasn’t nearly as palatable. He was tempted to take the journal out of his backpack and read a couple of pages, but his hands were so dirty and sweaty he was afraid he’d smudge the pages and run the ink. After slathering himself with another coating of sunscreen, he closed his eyes, tilted his cap down over his face, and rested awhile. Flies buzzed around him, but he was just too tired to wave them away.

  He must have dozed for as much as an hour, because when he woke up, the sun was behind the hills, the air was a trifle cooler, and from somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound he’d been hoping for. The high-pitched yapping of a coyote. Caroming off the hillsides, it was almost like a yodel, and he jumped to his feet, listening carefully to determine its direction, but it wasn’t easy; a coyote’s cry can travel up to three miles under the right conditions. Song dogs, the Native Americans had called them, and for good reason.

  When the howl came again, he determined it was emanating from the west, and slinging on his backpack, he headed off toward the setting sun. The sky was streaked with pale pink clouds, and as he crested the next ridge, he stopped in his tracks, knelt on one knee to be less conspicuous, and grabbed his binoculars.

  Two coyotes—Diego and Frida—were converging from opposite directions. If it weren’t for their long snouts and bushy, black-tipped tails, they might be mistaken from this distance for small German shepherds. They trotted along purposefully, and in Frida’s mouth, Rafe could see something limp and dangling—a dead rabbit, or some other prey. Coyotes killed with a clean, knifelike bite, usually to the head or neck, using their razor-shar
p carnassial, or cheek, teeth. But what was most exciting to Rafe was that she was surely carrying this quarry back to a den, and her cubs.

  It was like hitting the jackpot.

  Afraid of alerting them to his presence, and uncertain about where the other members of the pack might be, he scooted behind a clump of jojoba bushes; most of their leaves, which normally stood vertically so that only the tips received the brunt of the hottest sunlight, had turned gray and lifeless, and hung listlessly on the branches. Still, the shrubs provided some cover. Taking off his backpack, he laid it flat on the ground as a kind of bulwark, then, clearing a view through the base of the bushes, propped his elbows on top of the pack to hold the binoculars steady. The two coyotes circled a patch of ground several hundred yards in diameter, noses to the dirt as if checking for the scent of any intruder, and then, after a long and wary look around, came together at what looked to Rafe like no more than a shadow in the side of the hill. Adjusting his focus, he could see now that it was a burrow, concealed behind a fallen log.

  He could also see something slightly puzzling—that prey in Frida’s mouth looked distinctly like a Subway wrapper, still holding the mustard-smeared remnants of a sandwich. It wasn’t that a coyote wouldn’t go for a sub; the question was, how the hell had a sandwich, even a half-eaten one, gotten this far into the wilderness? It was unlikely that Frida had carried it all the way from a fast-food Dumpster off in Topanga or Malibu. Either way, this would be worth a photo for his fieldwork, and he fumbled under the flap of his backpack to get his camera. He’d no sooner screwed on the telephoto lens than he saw Diego’s ears stand up, his tail extend, and a second later he and Frida had vanished into the den.

  Had they heard the tiny sound of the camera being readied? Rafe wondered. Had they picked up his scent? A few seconds later, the mystery was resolved when he heard voices and footsteps approaching. Had Mr. Pothead been following him? And whom was he talking to?