Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

  Within moments of Uncle Peter being introduced to the group, his old-fashioned elegance worked its magic. He must be near seventy, I thought, but he was still handsome. His hair had gone gray years ago, but it was thick and swept luxuriously from his high brow. A hawk-like nose gave his face the aspect of keen intelligence.

  After he’d taken refreshment, Mary tried to press him into the parlor games she had planned for the afternoon. He refused politely, and I picked up on the cue, offering to take him for a stroll in the garden if he desired.

  “Splendid,” he announced, coming to his feet with a rather laborious effort and use of his cane. The silver snake head glinted in the light. I thought of the serpents in the barn and shivered.

  When we were away from the others, I steered him to a stone bench, and he took his ease gratefully. “Now we are alone,” he said with satisfaction. “And at last you shall tell me, child, what is wrong?”

  The cadence of his words was both familiar and exotic. He spoke with a “v” in place of the “w” and the “i” long. The comfort in his invitation, spoken musically in those exquisite foreign syllables, was like a warm rush of air after a long stay in the cold. It brought back such wonderful associations of happy times, and I almost missed the significance of his question.

  “Wrong?” I was taken aback, gaping at him at this show of prescience.

  He took my hands in his. I remembered them as large, capable, and strong, but they felt frail to me now. “I received your letter.” His eyes were searching. “And I suspected that you were in some kind of distress. I had the feeling I should come.”

  “But how did it reach you so quickly?”

  “As it happened, I was at my London house when your post arrived. I set out immediately, for you seemed distraught, although you tried not to be obvious. And you asked about Laura. You mentioned she had been on your mind.” He peered at me intently. I wondered if I was imagining the caution in his gaze. “Can it be you are remembering the past?”

  I replied, “Only a little. I have been…” I paused, not sure how much to reveal. “I have been in a strange state of mind of late.”

  His gaze grew piercing. “Did this upset you, to think of your mother?”

  “I remembered something at last. I never had any memories of her before.”

  “And what did you recall?”

  I was not imagining the tension. He remained very still, as if braced for what I was about to say.

  “I saw her weeping. It was very clear in my mind. It still is, in fact. It is like I can hear it as if it is happening now, it is all so vivid.”

  “Laura was very unhappy for many years.” His brow folded with deep thought. “You must think it strange I would rush here to discuss your mother, but it was not only that. I heard you were recently attacked, my dear. A man was killed?”

  My head snapped up in surprise. How had he heard about Wadim? It was almost as if he knew something more than what Fox and I had told the others, but I could not imagine how. No one knew the truth—that Wadim had been a vampire.

  I was so overtaken by shock I could not think of what to say.

  “A gypsy, they tell me,” he prodded.

  I recovered from my dismay. “I was never harmed. It was Mr. Fox who happened in when the man threatened me, thank goodness, and shot him dead.”

  “Yes,” Uncle Peter purred, “thank goodness indeed. Then we all owe a debt of gratitude to this Mr. Fox. I shall find him and convey my most heartfelt appreciation.”

  I smiled, laboring to shake the strange feeling that there was something amiss in his interest. What was this paranoia? Why could I not quell the sense that there was an undercurrent of meaning below the surface, just out of my grasp?

  “Miss,” a new voice cut in, and I looked up to see one of Mary’s staff standing nearby, “Mrs. Dulwich has asked that you join them.”

  No doubt, Alyssa was put out that I was monopolizing our cherished uncle. I sighed and glanced toward Uncle Peter. There was regret in his face. He patted my hand gravely. “We shall speak together soon, do not despair.”

  I was left with the distinct impression that he felt this was imperative. And that there was more to his visit than he had told me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As soon as I was able to slip away unnoticed, I returned to Saint Michael’s. This time, Father Luke was in. A decidedly less friendly Mrs. Tigwalt showed me into the kind of room in which you would expect a cleric to be busy at work, crowded with books and papers, various religious artifacts of no especial beauty, and furniture well worn to just a shade under shabby. A large desk was positioned in front of a mullioned bay, so that the large man seated behind it, hunkered over a pile of papers, was bathed in the ample backlight of the sunlit afternoon.

  “This is Mrs. Andrews,” she said, pronouncing the syllables with meaning.

  Father Luke raised his head, an action that reminded me of a great lion rousing from a nap. He was a man of no particular handsomeness, with a square face. His lips were thin but not cruel, his nose prominent, and his chin rather broad, but these strong features were balanced by a wide, scholarly forehead above and an incongruous assemblage of musculature below. His eyes were quite hot right now, watching me closely, but then he would have heard of the missing crucifix and would be suspicious of me.

  He looked first at me, then at his housekeeper, nodded, and she departed with a cool gust of air. It was on my mind to say something about my theft, offer an explanation—or, rather, partial explanation, for I surely could not confess in full—but I knew it was a bad idea, guaranteed to put us at odds outright. I had more important business to which I had best attend.

  “Mrs. Tigwalt had mentioned you’d been to see me,” he said. He extended his left arm, indicating the chair. He had thick, strong-looking fingers, a gold ring encircling the third finger of his left hand, precisely where a wedding band might be placed.

  I said, “She was kind enough to show me your beautiful church. I was quite overwhelmed by the art.”

  I had no great claims to charm where men were concerned, but neither did I think I was completely without any appeal. My sweet smile and ingratiating tone, however, did nothing to move the priest from his detached, almost cold, perusal of me.

  There was silence, awkward silence that stretched on far beyond my forbearance. That dense, powerful frame was intimidating enough to make me blurt, “I am not a Catholic, Father, but I wish to know if you will hear my confession.”

  Father Luke blinked, but recovered himself quickly. “Of course. We can adjourn to the confessional. I’ll need a few moments to prepare.”

  “Can I not simply make the confession here?”

  He offered me a chilly smile. “It is not usual.”

  “I hardly need the anonymity of the confessional,” I said. “Is that not the function the alcoves serve? I think I would prefer not to go in there. Forgive me, please, I do not mean to resist your traditions, but I am not good in small spaces.”

  His eyebrows crept upward. “I suppose there is no harm in adjourning to the church. We can simply take a pew. But there are certain vestments I need, and prayers to be said before I administer the sacrament.”

  “Of course.” I rose quickly, suddenly infused with a liking for this rash idea. I crossed his small yard and entered the church, hardly knowing what to do. But I figured a few prayers of my own were in order, and perhaps overdue.

  I sank to the kneeler, hesitated as to whether I should make the sign of the cross—deciding against it since it felt like pretension—and raised my eyes to the large rendering of suffering Jesus hung over the altar.

  I cannot report what communion transpired as I contemplated the savior. I am a Christian woman, of course, but I have never been particularly religious. I do not think the experience I had was because I was in the midst of the Catholic tradition, nor even because I was enveloped in the hallowed space of a Christian church. It was my state of mind, that special state of openness one has when
all else is not sufficient. Although this will displease those materialists who will fashion me daft or delusional, I will say I felt a stirring, a settling, a sense that something good was offering me a measure of peace.

  In any event, I knew I had come to the right place.

  When Father Luke came out and took the seat in the pew in front of me, turning toward the altar so that he was not facing me, he said, “Now, please say, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ And then you may begin your confession.”

  I stumbled over the phrase, not only because of the unfamiliar humility of placing myself before a stranger in contrition, but from the swell of emotion. Freedom flowed in the wake of those words, throwing open the doors and leading me to say, without any preamble whatsoever, “I stole the crucifix from the holy water font. I needed it, you see, and could hardly have asked for it. I had not planned to steal when I entered the church. It was not a part of any preconceived scheme, please be assured. But as I was waiting for Mrs. Tigwalt to bring me the holy water, I saw it and impulse overcame me. I tried to make it right by giving a donation to the poor. But it was hardly compensatory to having taken it without permission.”

  He turned slightly, so I saw the curve of his cheek. “Why did you take it, my child?” Being called “child” was entirely incongruous coming from this youthful, vigorous male who happened to be a man of God.

  “Am I protected by the sanctity of the confessional?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I needed it to protect a child.” I closed my eyes, girding myself against all the reasons why I should not go on. “I believe, with excellent and abundant evidence, that she is being attacked by a vampire.”

  All right then, I thought, let me see if he turns to me with pity in his eyes. Or perhaps horror. Maybe he would throw me out of this holy place, a person who would speak of such things in the Lord’s house—worse than mad.

  He said nothing. When I could stand his silence no more, I exclaimed, “I saw you in the graveyard at Sarum Saint Martin’s, praying over the new grave.”

  His head jerked; he was startled. “You are mistaken.”

  “You are hardly a person I would easily take for another, Father, if you will forgive me for saying so.”

  He turned a bit more, presenting his profile so that his pinched brow was visible, as was the hard slash of his mouth clamping down on his copious jaw. “Do you have other sins you wish to confess?” he asked.

  “Yes. I have witnessed a man being killed. Twice. The same man.”

  His gaze jerked toward me although his head did not move.

  “I have seen and felt evil,” I went on. “I wish to fight it, but I do not know how. I have used religious artifacts and icons for functions for which they were never intended. I do not know if that is blasphemy.”

  “What evil have you seen?” he asked, his voice hushed now, almost a whisper.

  “A shadow. A smell—a stench, really. I heard a screech owl once, and I thought it sounded like a creature enraged. I think it was the vampire, after I drove it off. I saw, in my hand, a Christian cross glowing, emitting heat. I killed six snakes that attacked me as if of one mind.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut to brace myself, then opened them. “I somehow see things others do not. I seem to…feel somehow that which is there but not there. I believe something foul is presently loose here, in Avebury.”

  He was very still, then collected himself and turned back toward the altar. We stayed like that, sitting together in silence, the church’s grand art, overly wrought and nearly hysterical, all around us.

  Finally, he asked, “Have you spoken of these things to anyone?”

  “I have, but I cannot tell you whom.” It stung whenever I recollected Mr. Fox’s inquiries. “He cannot, or will not, help. I cannot explain further.”

  “Is he an agent of this evil?”

  “I believe he is not. I have seen evidence that he wishes to defeat it. In fact, he was the one who saved my life by killing this…creature.”

  “Twice, you said.”

  “Yes. Once when the revenant was as a man and then again later, when it rose after death.”

  “That is heresy,” he said, but there was no condemnation in his tone. The words were spoken flatly, as if merely stating a fact.

  “He does not confide in me. I know only that he, too, believes a child is in the sights of an evil being.”

  “A child?” he whispered, visibly stricken with grief. “Little Henrietta Dulwich, is it? Your cousin’s daughter?”

  “Yes,” I said. I found I was trembling. “It is Henrietta.”

  Bowing his head, he contemplated this. And I realized, with a sudden shock and relief, that he was not disbelieving me. He had not laid his hands on me and compelled the demon of madness to depart from my soul. He had not vacated me from his presence in rage or indignation. And he had not so much as flinched when I spoke the word “vampire.”

  “I will tell you your penance, my child,” he said, his voice restored to its baritone crispness. “Three Our Fathers, a heartfelt Act of Contrition, which you can find written out in one of the pew missals, and a decade of the rosary.”

  I was deeply disappointed. “And in addition to these prayers, can you offer the benefit of any particular council?” I asked wanly. “I could use some practical aid.”

  “That you cease such talk.” He turned to look at me, his expression serious and a warning in the depths of his eyes. “You shall find yourself contending with consequences no one would desire.”

  “Wise words,” I agreed. “But what if it is a matter of life and death?”

  His expression was reminiscent of that which I had seen so often on the face of Mr. Fox, the look of a man willing to take but not to give. Behind his Roman collar, Father Luke regarded me with unfathomable, but not undisguised, calculation. I’d been a fool to reveal so much, I thought dispiritedly, for again I had gained nothing.

  No, not nothing. Absolution. But that would not save Henrietta.

  “I am but a priest,” he said, as if reading my thoughts and offering some explanation.

  “But not my priest.” I turned, then hesitated. “I cannot return the crucifix. I have need of it. However, I can pay to have it replaced.”

  “We are not a poor parish.” His smile was mysterious. “The item will be replaced. If you still see the need, you may make another donation to the poor.” He rose, resting his hand for a moment on the back of the pew. His ring was illuminated in a clear, uncolored pinpoint of light coming in through the painted windows, and I saw there was a symbol on the flat surface flush with his knuckle.

  “Your ring,” I said, staring. “The fish.”

  He dropped his hand, taking the insignia out of sight. “It is the early Christian symbol for Christ. You must know it.”

  “I saw the same on a plaque by the tree near The Sanctuary.” I indicated the direction of the painting I’d been shown on my earlier visit. “The tree is represented in that painting of Saint Michael casting out the devil. What is the significance?”

  His ample jaw swelled with belligerence. “I have already told you. Now, Mrs. Andrews, you may leave your donation in the poor box and then I will see you out.”

  He was not going to leave me alone in the church. So I made my donation, which was twice as large as I had originally intended, because of the slender missal I’d slipped in the folds of my skirts.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Father Luke was aware of Marius. Of this I was certain. I would even go so far as to say he was engaged in fighting the vampire, for I recollected his furtive appearance in the graveyard, clandestinely praying for the departed soul of one of Marius’s victims.

  He had not been shocked by my confession, true, but neither had he been interested in helping. No, indeed, he’d seemed more interested in keeping me silent.

  It was well known the Church practiced exorcism of demons. Was the belief in vampires so much further into the realm of the unreal than the idea of
demonic possession? Could Rome itself be aware of the existence of the undead and of how they preyed on human blood?

  The Blood is the Life. The holy tree, right there in the sacred spot of The Sanctuary, along the Saint Michael line and sealed with the sign of the fish. And the little church stood just beyond, a tiny jewel intact and unmolested through hundreds of years of religious strife and strong anti-Catholic sentiment.

  I caught myself. I was making a conspiracy out of coincidence. And yet I could not stop worrying it, my thoughts running in roads and lanes that accelerated to dead ends. I walked about in something of a daze the rest of that day, only half-attending to the happenings around me and keeping my keen eye on Henrietta. I had secured her room again this morning, the way Mr. Fox had done in the stable to seal the stall to prevent Wadim escaping. I liberally used salt and garlic and sprinkled the holy water Mrs. Tigwalt had given me. Still, I was ever-anxious over the child’s safety.

  One thing penetrated my distraction. The normally nattily dressed and meticulously groomed Sebastian emerged from his bed at midday in a state of dishabille. “You look wretched,” I told him, taken aback by his appearance.

  He touched his hair self-consciously. “I had no patience for a toilette today.”

  “No, not just that. How pale you are! Do you have fever?” Like a mother, I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead.

  He ducked it, playing, in turn, his role of a guilty boy. “One does not acquire fever from too many spirits. I am afraid I imbibed overmuch last night.”

  He sank shakily into a chair. I viewed him with concern.

  “Oh dear, will you leave off!” he barked at last, impatient with my hovering. “I am not dying! It’s a man’s prerogative to tipple a bit now and then.”

  I admit my mind had gone to dark ailments, of diseases that waste the body away and whose cure would not be found in an apothecary’s cabinet. I was overwrought, I realized, and it was not doing anyone good for me to walk about in such a show of perpetual anxiousness.