Grim Expectations

by KW Jeter

  Once past my spasm of disgust, that other emotion returned and welled greater inside my breast. I felt liberated of more than fear; much that had oppressed me before now seemed to dissolve into phantasms as insubstantial as the tumbling vapours surrounding the spot. At that instant, Life no longer seemed an oppressive burden, from which one might be freed at the first conflux of opportunity and wearied sulk. Coat unbuttoned, I stood with legs spread and arms akimbo, as though conqueror of a craven realm.

  “The Future, then–” No shame attended my booming voice; I only regretted that there was no one else to hear me. “What a fraud! What a clanking, hissing parade – one crippled, patched-together contrivance after another.” I scornfully kicked the iron head of the manufactured lion. “The great machines, the ones which rightfully deserved our awe – those are gone, as are the hands that built them.” My memory still retained the vision of those ambulatory lighthouses, one of which had towered over the destruction of the Houses of Parliament, and so much else in the city of London; with my eyes opened, however, they were no more than a figment of recall. “What we have left, my dear sirs–” Flinging my hands wide, I addressed my imagined audience. “Are the dwarves scuttling about in the deep footprints of vanished giants – we shall not see my father’s like again! And for that, I confess…”

  A darker musing tinged my thoughts, as though a raven had winged by, obscuring for a moment what dimming light was left.

  “I confess I am both thankful and saddened.” My voice dropped lower, as did my nodding head. “The World to Come might once have been some furious monstrosity bearing down upon us, with its thundering wheels set upon unswerving rails, and its gleaming arms poised to strike the World That Was to bloody flinders – but at least it had been a thing of vaulting ambition and enterprise. What have we now?” More pityingly, with the toe of my boot I nudged the broken gears and disconnected springs. “Toys and gimcracks, cheaply made, and for low ends; soon falling apart from their own inadequacy. Nothing more than that. And thus we have the World we created, and the Future we deserve.”

  Reader, that is as much threadbare philosophy as I can provide; you have struck a poor bargain if you came to these pages hoping for any greater insight than that. All very noble, I am certain, to moan and whine about Mankind’s dreary, distracted fate, but one achieves as much thereby as does the frog in the ditch, cursing and shaking his little webbed fist at the tines of the harrow that are about to skewer him. The virtue of old Zeno’s stoicism in this regard is that at least one keeps futile rantings to oneself.

  At the moment I had spoken as much, I perceived that another appeared to be listening. I looked up and into the placid gaze of a giraffe, either the same or another, as I had previously viewed at a greater remove. Being closer now, I realized that the creature was as much a mechanical construct as the motionless, partially disassembled lion at my feet; what tranquillity was in its eyes was no more than that radiated by idiot, unseeing glass. The boldly dappled skin of its elongated neck had been greatly eroded by moth and rot, revealing the bolted iron gantry within, specked with rust.

  “You, sir–” I sourly amused myself by addressing the artificial beast. “You are more the natural heir to this world than I am. My kind once had souls; take comfort that yours never did.”

  No doubt I would still have been standing there in the humid mists of Highgate Cemetery, making other foolish orations, when the sun rose again; I might well have provided some instructive example to an early-rising passerby, as to the perils of too much thinking about weighty matters – but events spared me from that salutary fate. The first was that my more exalted mood returned, as a glittering shore might be revealed by the withdrawal of a sullen tide. Again, the Future and the World both seemed but puny things, easily disregarded. To the degree my aging bones could manage, I capered a bit, as would have some proud African warrior who had just speared and dispatched an actual lion, strong of tooth and claw. Such are the advantages of solitude, that even an Englishman might indulge in a little triumphant dance, unhindered by others’ observation.

  As might have been anticipated, glad exertion in such a tropic climate – artificial as it was – evoked a corresponding flush of overheated blood throughout my body; in the dark of a British night, I was quickly drenched in sweat. Having already loosed my jacket’s buttons, I grasped its lapels in both hands and opened it wide, as though giving myself rudimentary wings to assist in my eccentric dance–

  So giddy was my renewed spirit, I was but slightly amazed when I glanced down at myself and saw that a perfectly round hole, about the span of my thumbnail, had mysteriously appeared in the fabric of my coat, a few inches from where it was extended from my damp shirtfront. A puzzling occurrence; the hole had not been there a moment ago, I was sure, and now I could quite plainly see through it to the moonlit clouds beyond me. Had the cemetery’s transformed environs spawned a new breed of moth, capable of taking such a bite, then darting away rather than fluttering nearby?

  The mystery was quickly resolved, though not to my liking, when my bounding mania ebbed enough that I could perceive a bit more of my surroundings. An echo faded against the flanks of the nearby hills, and I realized that my ears had been struck by the sound of a rifle shot – if I had not been gyrating about like a fool, I would have heard and known what it was.

  Within short order – no more than a split-second – I was face-down upon the earth, my chest pressed against whatever moss and mud upon which I previously had been standing. This instinctive response proved to be the wisest course, for no sooner had I flattened myself than the air was split by the sharp report of another bullet being fired. It passed above me, and through the space which I had occupied; judging by the impact striking shards from a nearby headstone, the bullet would have penetrated my chest if I had still been upon my feet.

  Raising my head, and with mind racing, I attempted to calculate some avenue of escape from the spot. Only a few seconds might pass before my unseen assailant – surely the same as had stalked me before on the Cornish coast – would correct his aim to where I now lay prostrate. My only hope, it quickly seemed, was to flee the relatively open space in which I was exposed, and plunge headlong into the thick foliage massed about me. Concealed by those elephantine leaves and overlapping fronds, I might evade the marksman long enough for him to abandon this latest attempt at assassination before the village constables, alerted by the rifle-fire, would arrive to investigate – or I might be able to struggle through the cemetery’s overgrown terrain to a point where I would be able to scale its surrounding walls and sprint to greater safety in the darkened fields beyond.

  Having a rough notion of the direction from which the shot had come, I raised myself onto my hands and knees, preparing to dart with as much rapidity as I could summon, toward the greenery opposite. My action was stymied, however, when another shot sounded – I even saw a spark of light from this weapon’s muzzle, somewhere in the distance to which I had oriented myself. Perhaps it was only my overwrought imagination, but I perceived the bullet passing directly above me, close enough to part my hair; a draping vine was snapped in two by its impact, just behind where I crouched.

  Had my assailant a confederate, similarly stalking me? Or more than one? A distinct possibility, for yet one more shot struck the ground by my hand; this more accurate aim, so much closer to its target, was afforded by an angle to my left, and a closer proximity than that from which the other rifle-fire had emanated.

  I could afford no more time to plot my own trajectory hence. All directions seemed equally dangerous, there being perhaps any number of lethal-minded marksmen surrounding me. Such being the case, I rolled onto my side, away from the splattered mud into which the last shot had struck. Scrambling into a hunched-over posture, I dove into the leaves dangling only a few inches from me.

  The rubbery branches were so thickly entwined as to support my weight; that, and their wet surfaces, gave a bewildering sensation of having actually plunged into oce
an depths, my limbs entangled in seaweed. I sank enough that the green elements closed above, shuttering away what little illumination had come from the cloud-masked moon and stars. In utter darkness I swam, or attempted to, feet kicking and arms desperately flailing. I could only conjecture that it would be a matter of a few seconds before my stalkers assembled at the spot from which I had fled, and perceived where I had made my escape.

  My floundering limbs achieved little progress until I stumbled upon a more efficacious mode of propelling myself forward; I realized that I could seize upon the vines and branches before me and then employ them to bodily drag myself farther into the concealing foliage, just as if I were clambering along a ladder laid horizontal. As I did so, ominous sounds came from behind – I was certain I heard quickly muttering voices, likely those of my stalkers arriving upon the scene I had abandoned, and conferring as to where I had disappeared.

  Thus motivated, I redoubled my efforts, giving little thought if any as to what noise I made thereby; those intent on my life might direct their rifle-fire into the bushes and fronds, but I was already so well concealed within them that it could only be a fortunate shot that might strike me. My sole consideration now was to put as much distance between myself and these pursuers–

  To that end, I achieved some considerable velocity; panic is an inspiring emotion. So much so that when the foliage through which I thrashed, one hastily grasped vine after another, became less abundant and incapable of bearing me further, I flew for a good yard or more before crashing upon the ground of another open space. I lay sprawled and somewhat dazed, but only for a moment; bounding to my feet, I attempted to discern whatever course of escape I could attempt from this point.

  To my dismay, those possibilities seemed scant; the opening into which my efforts had flung me was at the base of a masonry wall, its crenellated top too high for my fingertips to reach, however I strained or leapt. Passage alongside it, to my left, was impossible, blocked by a solid green mass more impenetrable than that through which I had just passed.

  During my hurried contemplation of options, no more than a second or two ticked away, but in that time I also heard what could only be the sound of another person fighting violently through the dense foliage behind me, accompanied by liberal cursing – evidently, at least one of my pursuers was even now following the most direct route to where I stood, and would soon be upon me.

  Pressed by necessity, I took the path that remained; placing my flattened hands and chest against the wall, I managed a scraping, inching progress through the narrow gap between it and the tangled growth at my back.

  Within a few uncomfortable yards, the mortared stones came to an end, succeeded by wrought-iron gates, the bars of which were too closely set to squeeze past, secured by a rusting chain and padlock. Tarnished gilt letters at the top proclaimed the name – SMEDLEY – of the family whose fortress-like mausoleum stood within, its marble flanks festooned with crawling ivy. Between the imposing structure and the gates stood a massive memorial statue, typical of the grieving wealthy; upon an alabaster pillar, a winged angel gazed down, its noble face full of compassion and pity for the bulk of Humanity, who had been so untimely deprived of all the deceased Smedleys deposited in their marble niches.

  My survey of the robed figure was quickly curtailed, however–

  “There he is!”

  The shout came from somewhere to the right. My situation was immediately evident; the other pursuers had not chosen to follow me directly, but had instead circled about, thus cutting off any continued flight on my part.

  Though I could see no more than fragmented shadows in the dark, the men’s lethal designs were made obvious once more, as a hail of bullets rained upon me. A searing pain burst upon my shoulder; its impact both stunned and slammed me against the iron gates.

  Dimly aware of events as I was, the bright sparks of bullets striking the gates’ iron bars surrounded me. Whether one such resulted in the disintegration of the padlock or one of the chain’s links, or whether my sudden weight thrown against the corroded metal was sufficient to snap it apart, I could not tell. It little mattered; whatever the cause, the result was that the gates parted from each other, creakily swinging open and sending me sprawling within.

  Rolling onto my back, I awaited my terminal fate. To seek refuge inside the mausoleum, I knew, would be a waste of what little time remained to me. Whatever might be the reason for these persons’ stalking of me, they had accomplished what they had set out upon. Haste and darkness had spoiled the accuracy of their earlier rifle-fire; now they could slay me at their leisure. If they did so here in the open air or in the mustier quarters of those already dead, I little cared.

  And that they would be enabled to do as they wished, now seemed obvious. For a great radiance had sprung up around me, bright enough that when I raised my head, I could see the distinct shadows of my outspread fingers cast upon the base of the statue against which my shoulders had lodged. Perhaps this sight was some delusion engendered within a disordered brain, for surely only a fraction of the night’s hours had passed in the chase, now concluded. To further disprove that the growing illumination was the breaking of the dawn, I perceived that the light appeared not in the sky above, but – weirdly so – from the ground beneath me.

  Braced upon my elbows, I saw the faces gathering near me: those of my stalkers, approaching at the periphery of my vision, rifles in hand; they were threatening in appearance, even beyond the weapons they held. Their eyes narrowed upon their prey, and thin, cruel smiles played upon their lips.

  But there was another face as well; tilting my head back, I saw the visage of the marble angel, rather more serene in aspect, one delicately wrought hand raised in blessing, great feathered wings spread behind.

  Then the figure toppled toward me, as if intent on swooping down and rescuing me from my peril. I heard a startled cry from one of the men around me, as the earth buckled and heaved beneath myself and them. In an instant, the light grew blinding, a brilliant eruption in all directions. From memory, I heard the Right Reverend Jamford’s clarion voice again, both promising and threatening that some new radiance, never seen before, would spring from the bowels of the earth, annihilating all that had come before–

  The marble angel, with its gentle seraphic gaze, plunged toward me. Upon the dancing earth, I prepared for that impact.

  SEVEN

  In a Gondola, with Americans

  I am a man not of Byronic passions – to put it mildly. To others, I leave the great excitements, and both the calamities and triumphs that wilder, more ambitious temperaments seek. Or rather, I would have left them, if events and conspiracies had not intervened to thwart my simple desires. I had hoped, when much younger, for mere survival and a certain degree of comfort; instead, I have had detestable adventures, one after another. Someone else received my quiet life, and longs for excitement instead – the fool.

  Thus the reader might excuse my post mortem bemusement at finding myself in an apparent afterlife more reminiscent of Italy than England.

  Venice, to be exact; my body – that much at least was familiar to me – lounged against a bank of pillows, at an angle halfway between vertical and horizontal, in one of those distinctive narrow boats known to travellers as a gondola. I was aware of the term, as well as the distinguishing features such as the toothed prow-head I could see some distance before me, having perused in my idle hours various peregrinatory accounts written by those countrymen of mine who fancied warmer climes to the chilly ones of their native land. Such of course is the typical longing of a certain type of literary aristocrat, hobbling about on his clubfoot while perusing his own near relations for suitable sexual conquests, all the while dreaming that both his dire poetry and dissolute habits would be facilitated by the beams of an alien sun.

  Which was oddly lacking here; I was in no great rush to assume full consciousness – and who could blame me for that reticence, after the circumstances of my death? – but I was able to perceive that
no daylight of any temperature fell upon me at the moment. Nor was I under a night sky – the moon and stars were absent when I gazed upward, but also those roiling banks of mist and cloud that had concealed them most recently in my memory. In addition, the air felt close and fetid about me; I was under no illusion that the lagoons into which every Venetian chamber pot was emptied would smell as fresh as an open countryside stream, but I might have expected at least a saline breeze from the nearby ocean.

  I had neither strength nor inclination to pursue this mystery; if translation to an incorporeal state of being was mine now, it did not seem to be accompanied by relief of the bruises and scrapes suffered while fleeing through the cemetery of Highgate. And worse: my arm felt like bloody hell, the ache from the bullet wound I had received – a superficial injury, to some degree, there being no apparent shattering of the bone within – was perceptible all the way to my wrist. My assumption was that some sort of dressing had been applied, as there was only a little dried blood staining the rent in my jacket sleeve, dangling empty at my side.

  “Mr Dower – you’re awake! How wonderful!” An unfamiliar voice summoned my attention. “Crackerjack!”

  My companion in the minute craft had much of the personal effusiveness that I recalled from Rollingwood – wherever that gentleman was now – but possessed of an even heartier forcefulness, such that I felt literally pushed against the pillows at my back. What was more disconcerting was that the person, identity still unknown to me, was an American; this was evidenced not just by his odd vocabulary, but also the way in which the flat twang of his accent murdered the language we shared. I had heard such before, years ago, when I still had been attempting to make a living from my watchmaker’s shop in Clerkenwell; I had received the occasional customer from across the Atlantic, more often than not drawn into the premises by that unapologetic curiosity the breed possesses, allowing them to delightedly prowl about any spot they regarded as sufficiently antiquated and therefore charming.