Fog Heart

by Thomas Tessier

  The next step was an unexpected touch. Literally. He liked the way Oona started crawling all over them. Himself, anyway. A pleasing bit of contact. Oona was a bit young for Charley’s play group – he liked to graze the graduate pastures – but she was a toothsome little lass. For her part, Jan endured it with a stoic expression. Not the physical-contact type, Jan. No doubt there was a rationale for this business: you have to get in touch with your body before you can get in touch with the spirits, some such ethereal New Age folderol. He could think of another one: if you rub the punters the right way, they’ll be in a better mood to buy the rest of the performance.

  ‘The flow, the flow, the flow…’

  Quite right too, Charley thought. We must go with the flow. Whatever the flow was supposed to be.

  Oona seemed to be going into a mild trance state. If you’re willing to credit that sort of thing. Charley glanced at Roz, by herself in the corner. All business. Roz was closer to his play group, and a woman with more of a body on her. He looked back to Oona, who was writhing impressively.

  ‘Wenda, wenda, wenda, wenda…’

  She could wriggle all over him, as far as he was concerned. Oona’s hand patted the air in front of her face, and she had the look of the blind in her eyes. She’d broken out in a sweat and fetching little tendrils of black hair clung to her face – then Charley noticed the way her cheeks changed colour so quickly. Red as a virgin’s blush, then chalk white and streaky. As far as he could tell she didn’t have any lipstick on but there was a bluish shading in the skin about Oona’s mouth. Was she asthmatic?

  ‘Wenda – wenda – wenda—’

  Oona’s body froze. Her eyes fluttered and her voice changed sharply, became a halting child-like singsong.

  ‘When the last laird of Ravenswood to Ravenswood did ride to woo to woo a dead maiden to be his bride beyond a beyond take me beyond a kelpie’s flow to Ravenswood take me beyond a I am beyond a kelpie’s flow flow flow the laird the laird to woo beyond to be a dead maiden stable his steed in the kelpie’s flow a dead maiden beyond his name lost for ever glow ever more lost lost—’

  So this is the start of it, Charley thought. All the same, he couldn’t help but feel a prickle of disquiet as the nerves in the skin on his arms and face reacted to Oona’s recitation. This was the kind of thing that had caught the Brownes’ attention, for certain. Charley filed a couple of quick mental notes for future consideration. It seemed so convenient, the way she made mention of Ravenswood right off the bat. More important was the way Oona pronounced the words ‘beyond a’. Run together, with a marginally lengthened ‘o’ in there, it could be mistaken for ‘Fiona’.

  Oona had gone limp, but the rigidity came back into her body again just a few seconds later. Her vacant eyes widened, her jaw extended itself unnaturally, and the spate of words resumed in a shuddering rhythm.

  ‘Hie to moorish gills and rocks wily wolf and prowling fox O birds of omen dark and foul night-crow raven bat and owl oh no oh no oh no leave the sick man to his dream all night all night all night he hears your screams as the laird comes down to Ravenswood to who to who to who is dead the dead maiden beyond the kelpie’s flow oh no oh no birds of omen night-crow raven bat and owl leave him leave him ghaist-like she fades she fades O kelpie quench in bog and fen beyond a bog and fen the laird the laird is lost for ever more for ever glow his name lost for ever more—’

  The girl subsided for the time being. She looked empty and weak, and her breath came in shallow gasps. Charley had to admit that there was a kind of raw power to the performance. There was no doubting Oona’s effort. She put herself into it and flat-out raved. It could work like a spell on you, if you let it.

  But years of labouring over words had taught Charley a thing or two. Oh, he caught the reference to Everglo all right, and it was understandably disturbing. And yet, it could just as easily have been ‘ever glow’, and have no relevance to them at all. Ravenswood was the only unambiguous term but it was a place name, probably a common one throughout Britain and Ireland; it might sound like a strong link, but it was actually the weakest. And if Fiona was a misreading of ‘beyond a’, which was quite possible in the fervid excesses of Oona’s delivery, then the whole thing was meaningless to them and collapsed like a house of straw.

  There were other parts that had sounded fascinating, but he would have to consider them later. Oona was stirring again. Her voice was shrill now, an accusatory cry. Her fingers, stiff and claw-like, pulled the skin on her face back and raked through her wild mane of hair.

  ‘You don’t want a baby I don’t want a baby you don’t want a child I don’t want a child – a CHILD – watch out CHILD the bird of omen night-crow raven bat and owl the laird comes for you who woo the dead maiden ever more you don’t you don’t you don’t want a baby I don’t want a baby will kill you wax wax wax—’

  Charley’s eyes were on Jan. At the eruption of those first words, she flinched visibly. Her hands were twisted in a fierce grip of each other on her lap. Don’t you see, love? It’s all a fog of suggestion and similarities, designed to let you associate freely and fill in the gaps. It was so hurtful and untrue.

  ‘– wax wax wax wax wax—’

  Another temporary subsidence. But the yapping repetition of the word wax got through to Charley. Paraffin was a form of wax. A derivative, wasn’t it? Refined, distilled, whatever. It had been an Everglo paraffin space heater that had taken the life of their daughter. First the fumes, the smoke, and then the flames. Nearly took Jan as well.

  Charley looked from Jan back to Oona – her face was cherry red now, the sudden sight of it making him catch his breath. She had wedged herself hard against the cushions, close to Jan, with her legs extended towards Charley. Little bare feet and red welts on her calves – appearing, it seemed, even while he watched. It must have been a momentary illusion, and they had been there all along. Oona’s voice turned flatter and broader.

  ‘Font – Font – Font – Fontane – Fontayna – dead maiden stable your steed by the edge of the lake where the kelpie waits the laird the laird of Fontane Fontayna Fon Tay—’

  Abruptly back to a previous Scots snarl.

  ‘The corbies wait the corbies keep the corbies come when you fall asleep oh no don’t oh please don’t do that to me the corbies wait please don’t FATHER the corbies keep MOTHER the corbies come when you’re asleep Font Font Fontane Fontayna—’

  Oona kicked the air several times, while pressing her face into Jan’s arm as if to hide. Hesitant at first, Jan cautiously put an arm around Oona’s shoulder and gently stroked her cheek to comfort her.

  Charley heard his wife say: ‘I know. It’s all right.’

  What was this? Damned if he knew. Oona had pulled another rabbit out of the hat. Jan had been born and raised in the small southern Wisconsin town of Fontana, which did happen to be on a lake. But, in itself, that fact meant nothing.

  Oona tore loose from Jan, sat up and screamed. Her face was racked, and blood oozed over her lips. Her fingers clutched at her forearms compulsively, then picked at the skin on her cheeks. The scream drained her, and when it finally ended in a dying moan she toppled forward across Charley’s legs. He caught her, easing her down onto the cushions beside him.

  She felt cold, too cold. He looked at Roz, who returned his gaze evenly but said nothing. Jan was weeping. Charley reached for Oona’s hand and checked her pulse. Nothing. Somewhere, it’s there somewhere. But he couldn’t find it. Cold as marble. This was wrong. He tried to find the artery in her neck, but again he failed. Charley put his ear to her chest and forced his mind to concentrate. Surely he would hear a heartbeat, especially coming right after all that exertion. But he heard nothing.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Roz told him.

  ‘There’s no pulse,’ he said. ‘She has no heartbeat.’

  ‘It’s just that you can’t hear it.’

  ‘I’m damn sure I’d hear a heartbeat,’ he said angrily.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Roz insisted. ‘Th
is happens. She’ll come out of it later, if we leave her be.’

  Jan was still crying softly to herself, eyes locked on Oona. The show was over, apparently. Oona was all right? Well, fine. Let her lie where she fell. Blood and screams. It had unnerved him, and now that he was beginning to think again he felt annoyed and put-upon. Words and associations, blood and screams. It was eerie at moments, yes, and finally disturbing, in a way – but if there was a point to all of that, it escaped him.

  Charley would have preferred the voice of a ten-thousand-year-old Indian chief, telling them that mankind was despoiling the planet and that they had to change course before it was too late. Well, yes, Chief, now that you put it like that, we have to agree, and we’ll get on to it right away. Next time call collect if it’s that kind of Big Picture message.

  He put his arm around Jan as they left the enclosed area and went to the front room. He noticed that she seemed to be keeping a significant inch or two of space between them.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She merely glanced at him, then away. Apparently not. But at least the tears had stopped. Charley had the uneasy sensation of failure to do the right thing. Somehow. But he hadn’t a clue what it was or how to correct the fault. That gave him a feeling of peevish inadequacy and a desire to leave. And a desire to get some serious drink inside him.

  But first, the folly-up. Charley made an effort to appear interested as Roz talked to them about meanings, how they should reflect on what they’d heard, and more like that. Jan listened. Said nothing. Jan was sad. Too sad, even for Jan.

  A curious shift had taken place. He could see it in the way Roz talked to Jan. This had started out as Charley’s problem but now Jan had moved to the centre of it. Jan was the focal point. Jan would want to come back for another session, with or without him. It was obvious from the look on her hungry face, as well as the way Roz concerned herself with Jan.

  That bothered him, but only a little. He knew that he would be expected to tag along in future, to be there for Jan. Had it ever been any different?

  ‘Your wife has a very strong influence,’ Roz said to him, by way of casual explanation. Of something, no doubt.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Her presence was an enormous help to Oona.’

  ‘How so?’ he dared ask.

  ‘In all of it, the entire experience,’ Roz answered. ‘Women are more sensitive than men, somehow, and that helps.’

  Oh, yes. Women are more sensitive. He’d heard that before. Funny how it was always some woman telling you.

  ‘I see.’

  Jan was quiet in the car. Too quiet. Charley said nothing until they were back at the apartment. He got himself a towering highball, rye and sweetness. He fired up a large Dominican. He went to Jan, who was pottering about mechanically in the kitchen, rearranging cups and glasses with runic obscurity.

  ‘She never mentioned Fiona at all,’ he said.

  ‘Believe me, that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Jan, what we heard tonight was a jumble of words,’ Charley said, trying to keep a civil tone. ‘Some of them might seem to mean something to you or me, but they don’t add up to a single coherent thought or message. They were tossed out there for us to play with, and turn them into something.’

  ‘You saw her,’ Jan said sharply. ‘You saw what happened to her. The changes she went through.’

  ‘Fainted, I suppose. Overdid the hyper bit.’

  ‘Her body.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The marks on her,’ Jan said fiercely. ‘She didn’t just see something, like in a vision. She experienced it all over again, in her own flesh.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t buy that one.’

  Jan shook her head. ‘You missed it.’

  ‘What?’ Charley demanded. ‘What did I miss?’

  ‘Fiona is here. Fiona has come for us.’

  12

  Some of the offerings were so beautiful that Oliver felt close to tears. It was hard to explain, even to himself. He had tried on a few occasions to share his love of stamps with Carrie, but the words always seemed to elude him. She understood the collecting bug and she knew that some stamps were valuable while others were not, and of course she could see the pleasure Oliver got from it. But the passion? Carrie didn’t get that at all.

  To Oliver stamps were a dazzling universe of miniature art, intricate, layered in arcane history, utterly pure and beautiful. Real stamps, not the modern rubbish with its hideous colours and revolting graphics. Oliver wouldn’t touch anything that had been issued since 1945, and most of his collection dated from the nineteenth century. He had been bitten early, and devoted to it ever since. Thanks to his father. The hours the two of them spent together poring over stamps had been the best in Oliver’s boyhood.

  The Kohler preview left him shaky with delight. He wandered away from it and settled himself in a narrow bierstube a short distance from Wilhelmstrasse. Lately, he had been drawn to old German and Swiss cantonal covers: whole envelopes adorned with frankings and cancellations, multiple stamps and other postal markings that were added en route, as well as a handwritten name and address. A good cover was an artifact that combined history, geography and a personal human element – an echo from someone’s long-forgotten and inconsequential life. A kind of beautiful ghost.

  He had Carrie and Lugano coming up at the weekend. He was looking forward to it. It almost hadn’t been going to happen at all. Carrie had wanted to come but felt she couldn’t take the time off. She had too much work to do now, including the job for her Belgian, and a list of other people who couldn’t be kept waiting long. Oliver persuaded her that she could spare two work days. Carrie would fly out Thursday night and arrive in Lugano Friday morning. They would have three days and nights together. She could catch a Monday morning return flight and be back home at the apartment late that afternoon.

  A curious peace had taken hold since that shattering first session with Oona. Carrie was in contact with her father. She believed it, and that was all that mattered. Communication wasn’t easy – in fact, it was pretty damned hard to figure out just what the old boy might be trying to say to her. But the contact was a reality to her. It gave Carrie a rationale to continue with the psychic process.

  It was a bit different for Oliver. Panic. Fear. His life was ending, and not the way he wanted. Oona appeared to know him much too well. That could be a problem. Was a problem. A major problem. Had to be addressed. Solved.

  He bought another beer and flipped through the pages of the Kohler catalogue again. No doubt about it, he could spend thirty thousand dollars in Wiesbaden without giving it a second thought. But that would be extravagant for one auction.

  At least there was no immediate rush to deal with Oona. She only did two or three sessions a week. Took too much out of her, and she had to recharge her emotional batteries. Something like that. She had other clients, and couldn’t take Carrie – and him – again until the end of the month. Time enough for Carrie to reflect, and to prepare herself for the next message from Daddy. Time enough for Oliver to plan, and act.

  Question. How much did Oona understand of what she appeared to know? Maybe none of it. That would be great, but he couldn’t take a chance. The girl had already made a point of establishing a small zone of secrecy with him by not letting Carrie know that she had met him the week before. A small point, perhaps, but one worth bearing in mind.

  Question. How did Oona know about him? Several years ago, Oliver had made an unplanned stopover in Bombay, while en route from Bangkok back to London, his suitcases crammed with samples of lush Thai silk. He had never been to India. It was an impulse, a whim. Why not? He could afford to indulge himself like that. A couple of days in Bombay. He might even take a train down the coast and investigate the fabled hippie haven of Goa. Check the scene, meet a few stone burn-outs, drink some beer on the beach. There might be a semi-exotic female waiting for him …

  But it had been in Bombay, not Goa. And at Ballapul, not Ch
ik Pavan. The little man whose voice Oona had rendered so well that the hair on Oliver’s neck had bristled at the first sound of it. The very words. Oona could never know that, not unless the unfortunate little man had come to America and had told her. But he hadn’t. He was dead. Oliver had killed him. You have to, if you want somebody dead.

  It had been unnecessary and unfortunate, but there you are. His attitude was fairly simple. If the situation comes down to your life or mine, you go first. Oliver hadn’t asked for it to happen the way that it did.

  Answer. Oona was genuine. On some level, in some way, Oona had an ability to know dead and buried parts of your life. Parts no one else knew, and that you never even thought about any more. Oliver had no idea how she did it, how she arrived at or received this information, but the precise mechanism was beside the point. Oona was genuine. No other explanation would hold.

  But her ability was clearly limited. If you thought of it as a powerful searchlight, capable of penetrating the dark nights of the past, then it was also huge and unwieldy. Apparently Oona had little control over it. Moreover, she didn’t understand the half of what she revealed. By herself Oona was dangerous, like a tin of explosive chemicals that required proper handling.

  But when you added Roz to the mix, all bets were off. There was something very worrying about the efficient note-taker on the edge of events. Calm, cool, capable. Cunning. Calculating. He had to assume the worst about her. Roz was the one who would fit the pieces together. Oona could supply the knowledge. Roz would understand it and use it. Roz was a cunt.

  Oliver’s eyes went back to the photo of a German cover that broke his heart. A letter envelope sent from Munich to Leicester in 1861. There were five Bayern stamps on it, two 18 Kreuzers in orange-red, and three coat-of-arms lower values in a vertically cut franking strip. Besides the original München cancellation it had acquired a couple of thimble postmarks in England, along with a triangular handstamp that was either a mistake or a display of excessive zeal and self-importance on the part of some provincial clerk. A beautiful specimen, right down to the elegantly looping penmanship in the name and address.