by Brian Mercer
"They're in some sort of shape," Sara said.
"Yeah. It's the Big Dipper. You know, like the stars. My boyfriend... My ex-boyfriend used to call me 'Dipper,' but he was kind of a goon. My dad used to like 'em, though. When I was a little girl he told me that I used to be part of the stars and that I was a gift for him and Mom."
"Uncle Alex told me that we are all made of light," Sara had replied, "even if most people can't see it."
I thought about Mom now as I sat alone in our shared parlor staring at the fire. I didn't need anyone to tell me that Mom had left for the airport. I could feel the emptiness, that she was no longer nearby.
I sighed deeply, feeling the sting of tears at the edge of my eyes, when I heard it: Music. The quiet, contemplative tones of a piano. A gradually wandering melody drifted in the still morning air beneath a single note, repeated again and again, like constantly falling water. I found it strange and lovely how the song's central theme could be so happy and thoughtful while at the same time falling into sad overtones, as if the music purposefully mirrored something inside me.
Pulling the blanket over my shoulders, I turned the heavy brass knob, opening the door to the outer hallway. Music leapt down the dark corridor, as if inviting me to find out where it was coming from. I followed it into the sitting room next door, where a wall full of windows looked onto the grey, rainy morning. Nicole sat in her robe behind the room's focal point, an ancient-looking grand piano. Her eyes half-closed, she seemed oblivious to everything but the steady sweep and fall of the music, until some psychic sense must have let her know I was standing there.
"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to wake anybody up."
"Don't stop. Please. It's beautiful. What is it?"
"Frédéric Chopin. One of his preludes. It's called, 'The Raindrop'. I woke up this mornin' and couldn't get back to sleep and was watchin' a droplet of water wanderin' down the window pane. It made me think of it. I spotted this piano in here last night and thought I might avail myself."
"I've always wanted to play."
"Come here." She patted the spot on the bench next to her. "It's okay. I won't bite'cha.
"This note here is A flat," she said once I had settled beside her. "Put your finger here, just like this, and play this note over and over again. Like that. Good. Perfect."
I continued to press the black key, tapping repeatedly, like the spacebar of a typewriter. Once I got the rhythm just right, Nicole began to play, plucking out the melody just the way I'd heard it in the distance. But now it was a part of me, alive beneath my hand. When Nicole reached down to the piano's bass notes, coaxing the firm, rich tones from the instrument, I sensed something move and settle within my core. For the first time in over a year, since I'd parted from the inexpressible serenity of the afterlife, I felt truly at home.
****
"Everybody, this is Nigel." Sara pulled a freckle-faced, towheaded boy reluctantly up to the breakfast table. "He's new at Waltham, too."
"Hello," Nigel said with a British accent not unlike Sara's. Approximately Sara's age, though a hair shorter, he wore a pink Oxford shirt, khaki pants, and loafers.
"Would y'all like to join us?" Nicole offered.
"I'm going to show him around a bit first." Sara cut in before Nigel had a chance to say anything. "We'll be classmates, you see, and we're supposed to greet our teachers before Orientation. I'll be right back to give you the tour I promised."
Nigel waved goodbye as Sara grasped his arm and hauled him off. Sara, still school age, had complained the night before that she would have a governess and be required to study and take exams. She seemed glad to have a classmate young enough to have to do the same.
Cali, Nicole, and I were sitting in what Sara had referred to as the luncheon hall. It was a long conservatory that projected out from the house and into the west gardens. Covered wall and ceiling with ornate leaded glass, the roof structure was an opaque milky-white alternating with slivers of transparency; the walls were clear and beveled, outlined with stained glass made to resemble wisteria vines. Together with its black-and-white checkerboard floor tiles and large potted palms, it looked distinctly English and seemed more like a home for orchids than a dining hall.
We were sitting in black wrought-iron chairs with floral cushions at a table draped in white linen. Along with the traditional English breakfast of tea and toast, eggs and sausage, white beans and stewed tomatoes, there was coffee, juice, and cereal. My hunger far outpaced my body's ability to take in food, it had been so long since I'd eaten regular meals. I didn't let that hold me back, though. It felt good to have some ballast to start my first full day at Waltham.
As Nicole and Cali chatted, I examined the students around us — men and women of all nationalities and ages, though most were somewhere in their twenties or thirties. It was difficult to gauge how many there were exactly, with all the comings and goings, but from the number of people seated at similar tables, I estimated maybe fifty or sixty students. The room could seat a lot more.
Despite the crowd, I didn't sense the barrage of other people's energy coming at me the way it normally did when others were around. In fact, since I'd arrived at Waltham that inner sense of knowing had eased to a mild buzz, like the hum of distant traffic. It didn't seem to be a change in me so much as a change in my environment. Something about Waltham made everything different.
"I don't think most people are rookies like us," Cali was saying. "Sir Alex said he'd only invited about a dozen new students this term."
"Everyone I've talked to seems really nice and friendly," Nicole declared, "and so many people takin' care of us and dotin' on us. The place almost seems sunny, even if it's rainin'."
Cali shook her head. "Is it just me or does all this seem familiar? Like we've all been here and done this before."
"Yeah, yeah. Familiar," I agreed. "But how's that possible? Unless we all had the same dream and just don't remember it."
Cali chuckled. "Don't be so sure we haven't."
I was scanning the crowd when I noticed him, a boy about my age, sitting alone at a table reading a book. He had longish brown hair that flopped down over his forehead and partially into his eyes. A large wool sweater and baggy corduroy pants draped over his wiry body, and together with scuffed white sneakers and the tail of his untucked dress shirt hanging down over his pants, he presented a disheveled, unstudied handsomeness. He slumped casually over his chair the way someone might do in their own home, but I got the impression that he was very uncomfortable and self-conscious and trying to look otherwise.
I'd been eyeing him for only a few seconds when he looked up from his book and directly at me, as if sensing my attention on him. Oops, I thought, quickly looking away. Busted! Of course he's gonna sense when he's being watched. I'm in a room full of psychics. I felt warmth spread through my cheeks. I looked back again just in time to see him smirk and gaze back down at his book.
Little punk.
****
"Uncle Alex holds Waltham Manor in trust for my whole family," Sara explained as she guided us down a set of worn stone steps. "Every July we're invited to spend the summer holiday here. I've stayed three summers at Waltham with my sisters. It's a dream come true. Riding all day. Playing with Uncle's dogs. Exploring the woods."
"Sir Alex is your uncle?" Nicole asked.
"Well, no, technically he's my great uncle," Sara admitted, "but most everyone in the family calls him Uncle Alex. Well, all of us kids, at any rate." Since breakfast, Sara had changed into a cashmere sweater, a matching wool skirt, and grey tights. I began to wonder if Sara had a private room at Waltham filled with nothing but clothes. There wasn't enough space in our shared bedroom to accommodate her constant wardrobe changes.
"If you're anything like me and my sisters," Sara went on, "Waltham can put you out of sorts when you first arrive. It gets so you can't tell your right from your left after a time. Follow me and I'll show you how to keep your head."
Cali, Nicole, and I
exchanged veiled grins. Sara clearly enjoyed being in the know among her three old maids. She opened a set of double doors and led us into an open-air corridor with arched stone openings that looked right and left onto leafy, storm-drenched courtyards. Rain tumbled steadily from leaden skies, drenching the neatly trimmed lawns and slickening the brick-lined walks. While the trees were bare, lush ivy and neatly squared hedges hinted at what it might look like on a summer's day, when sunlight warmed the stately stone benches and sparkled in the elaborate fountains.
"This is the North Court and the South Court," Sara explained, pitching her voice so she could be heard above the hammer of falling water. "If you can keep these straight, you can pretty much know where you are at any time."
We stood shivering in the cold, staring up blankly at the multiple stories of elaborate diamond-paned windows that looked down on each courtyard. I was still lost.
"I know," Sara said after a moment's thought. "Follow me."
She herded us farther down the open corridor, inside through a second set of double doors and up another grand staircase. We ascended two flights, passing elaborate Persian rugs, beveled wall mirrors, and small hallway tables decorated with antique vases.
"How old is Waltham?" I asked.
"I can't say exactly. I haven't the head for dates and numbers. As I recollect, the original manor house was built sometime in the middle 1600s. It burnt down in a fire around the end of the 1700s. At the time of the fire, this place was just a cottage that the Waltham family took over until they could gather the funds to rebuild the old house. Meantime, they improved upon the cottage and improved upon it, until they just decided to make this the new manor house. And, I should say, this house is much cozier than that old house would have been, what with all that cold iron and stonework.
"Would you like to see the old ruins sometime? The old house still stands on the very northeast end of the property. When I take you all riding in the spring, we'll be sure to spend some time there."
"Riding?" Cali swallowed uneasily. "You mean like horses?"
"Why of course horses," Sara answered. "What else would we be riding?"
I perceived a cloudy energy darken the center of Cali's blue aura, which was already pretty dark to begin with. Something about horses freaked her out, but I couldn't pick up what.
On the third floor, Sara took us back around through a corridor that zigged this way and zagged that way, past lighted niches displaying statues and artwork. Open doorways looked into vacant rooms with elaborate quilts and tall, carved poster beds, arrangements of sitting areas and side tables, fireplaces guarded by built-in bookcases.
"As you can see, there are all kinds of nooks and hidey holes to get lost in. When I was a little girl it was the most wonderful place to play hide and seek with my cousins. But if you're not careful, you really can lose your way."
The hallway opened onto a grand sitting room, where walls of windows on both sides looked out onto the north and south courtyards. Dozens of cushy sofas and armchairs faced inward toward the room's focal point: An elliptical skylight paned to look like a spider web, which cast a weak grey light onto an elaborate birdcage. Designed to resemble a large, Victorian mansion, the bird cage had multiple levels and dozens of convenient alcoves to perch, eat and drink. There was even a little birdbath. In spite of its large interior, it held only a single yellow canary.
"Everyone, this is Matilda." Sara brought us to a stop before the bird, who chirped happily. "She's been here as long as I can remember. For whatever reason, she's lived quite past her time."
"Hello, Matilda," we said, almost in unison.
Sara pushed her face up to the cage, meeting the bird eye-to-eye. "Nicole, Matilda tells me she quite fancies your hair."
"Well, bless her heart." Nicole patted and arranged her long, copper locks, smiling modestly. "So you really can chat with animals. And birds, too? Do tell, what else does she say?"
"She says your hair's so lovely and full, it would make a right proper nest." Sara grinned mischievously, gesturing toward Matilda as if to indicate it was she who said it. Before Nicole could respond, Sara urged us onward, through an arched doorway at the opposite end of the room and up a flight of winding steps.
"What's the lifespan of a canary?" asked Cali.
"I reckon I know one canary's lifespan that ought to be shortened directly," replied Nicole.
"It can't be more than five or six years," I answered, breathing hard from the climb. It had been a while since I'd had much exercise.
"Oh, Matilda is much older than that," Sara insisted.
"It's this place, isn't it?" Nicole said. "There's somethin' special about the energy here. Cali and I felt it the moment we arrived last night."
"This area has always been special," Sara said. "Even the ancients thought so. Uncle Alex says there was once a Druids' circle here on the property, sort of a Stonehenge in miniature."
"Cool," I said. "I'd love to check it out."
"I don't think it's still around. In olden times the Romans had an outpost or a temple here. They're supposed to have made off with it, I think."
We were walking up through a cylindrical space, one of Waltham's many towers. Small, rectangular windows opened at even intervals along the winding staircase, each with a single stained-glass rose blossoming at its center. Red, yellow, white, violet. Beyond the glass, ivy leaves framing the casements bobbed and nodded in the rain.
The staircase ended in a rounded turret enclosed on all sides by windows. The space gave us a stunning three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the estate's rooftops, towers, and surrounding forest. "This is Waltham. As you can see, the manor house is shaped like a big number eight, with the two inner circles being the North Court and South Court. You arrived yesterday from the south, that is, at the very bottom of the eight. Over there." Sara pointed where the rows of elm trees lining the main drive reached above the gabled peaks.
"Our bedrooms are on the top, left-hand corner of the eight." Sara brought us around to the other side of the tower. "You probably noticed that most of the classrooms and student quarters are in the south part of the house and in the east and west wings near the entrance. Nowadays, the north part of Waltham is mainly empty, or where the special guests stay. We are in the north wing because I asked Uncle Alex for rooms with a view of the stables."
"Well, someone's got rooms above us," Cali observed, referring to our upstairs neighbors, who had been banging around unpacking all night. "Someone who likes to party."
Sara's eyes narrowed in irritation, as if wondering who else might have enough pull to get rooms in such a secluded part of the house. "Well, I didn't say we were the only students there. But you'll have to admit, it's mostly quiet."
"Yeah," replied Cali, "in the daytime, maybe."
Sara glanced at her wristwatch. "Oh, drat! We're going to be late for Orientation." With that she turned on her heel and dashed down the stairs, leaving us behind. A few seconds later her head poked up from beyond the lowest stair. "Well, come on then."
****
When we reached the sitting room where Orientation was held, most of the class was already there. The parlor was located somewhere above the front entrance. Its windows overlooked the brick-paved front drive and the tunnel of elms leading to the school's main gate. The rain had stopped but the sky was still painted with dark grey clouds.
There were plenty of reading chairs and sofas for people to sit but no desks. For a school, Waltham was very unschool-like. It felt more like someone's home than a house of learning. I took a seat on a couch between Nicole and Sara. There were about a dozen students in our class, four boys and the rest girls. I guess women were more in touch with their intuitive sides than men.
Next to me, Sara counted our classmates. "...eleven, twelve, thirteen. This can't be all of us. Thirteen's not a proper number, is it? Bad luck, right?"
We exchanged glances and I shrugged. "It'll probably be okay."
The boy with the long bangs that I'd s
een earlier that morning in the luncheon hall was leaning against the wall of windows, talking to a tall, spindly girl in her early twenties. The girl had pointed, foreign-looking features that made me think of the willowy ballet dancers from the Bolshoi that I'd seen two seasons ago, when they'd performed in New York.
The two were standing awfully close to each other, their faces almost touching, whispering conspiratorially. Then, as if sensing they were being watched, they both looked across the room at me. I locked eyes with the girl and smiled but she didn't react. Then the boy whispered something in her ear and she giggled into her hand.
"That guy's starting to get on my nerves," I whispered.
"I see that you're all here," Sir Alex said, strolling into the room with the familiar thump of his silver-tipped walking stick. "I want you all to meet Mrs. Apple, if you haven't already."
Mrs. Apple walked in behind him and it occurred to me that I'd never met anyone so appropriately named. Perhaps five feet tall in her clunky, tan pumps, Mrs. Apple was round and plump, her vivid red hair way too bright for a woman who must be well into her seventies. When she smiled, her brilliant red lipstick made an impression on the back of my retina that would linger for days.
"Oh, and there's a parcel of bright, cheerful faces if ever I saw 'em," Mrs. Apple observed in a thick, nearly unintelligible Scottish brogue.
"Mrs. Apple will be your teacher and primary advisor," Sir Alex explained. "As you might guess, the range of talents in this room varies broadly, and while we can develop a curriculum that will accommodate most everyone, each one of you will require specialized attention, either by instructors at the academy or by senior students who have some experience with the same abilities as yours."
Mrs. Apple introduced herself as a friend of the Waltham family who'd been an instructor here for as long as the school had been open. Her mediumistic abilities started as she was a teenager, when she channeled an aunt who'd recently died. Mrs. Apple had been writing a letter to a friend when her arm took off on its own and began writing out several lines in her great aunt's hand. Shivers trickled down my back as she fleshed out the details of her experience. It made me think of my own handwriting change and my mysterious new artistic abilities, which, like Mrs. Apple's automatic writing, weren’t consciously directed. The idea that I was somehow lending my body to unseen spirits made me feel dirty and I vowed to ask Mrs. Apple about it as soon as I had a chance.
