by Lisa Tuttle
The statue was hinged like a cabinet. The hollow inside was lined with dark satin, the same color as my clothes. I thought of a coffin, and then I thought of a telephone cabinet.
If he had instructed me, I would have obeyed, but he said nothing. I felt the now unpleasantly familiar mental pressure urging me forward and—would I never learn?—at once I stiffened, resisting. My resistance was turned against me; the force now irresistible, I all but flew across the stage and into the satiny embrace of the hollow statue, where a cushioned seat awaited me.
“I hope you are comfortable?” His smile was of the most unbearable smugness: Once again, I was complicit in my own defeat. When I did not reply, he continued. “I understand you may find it a bore to be in darkness, so closely confined, but you will be alone for only a few hours. Then you will have your part to play. For now, I suggest you rest. Go to sleep. Rest…close your eyes…relax…”
I thought he meant to put me into a trance by hypnosis, but perhaps he felt my unwillingness, and, with little time to spare, decided to hurry matters along. I became aware of his sixth sense seeking out mine. It’s hard to describe this feeling. If I had to draw a picture, I might sketch a snake…or, no, some sort of fragile, frondlike pseudopod, sprouting from his head to poke blindly into mine where it quested for something immaterial—the psychic version of a scent. Once on the scent it would follow it, find me, and our wills would merge. My only chance was to keep it from touching me, to evade and slip away, again and again. Through a variety of mental or psychical wriggles I managed to avoid his touch, but the chase could not go on forever. He had already entered my soul—it was as if we were trapped together in a small room, and eventually, inevitably, he would have me.
It was only a matter of time, but for once, time was on my side. He was in a hurry, impatient to leave, and although he must have known I could not avoid him for long, he would not spend the minutes that might be necessary. Without saying another word, as if our silent battle had never happened and this had been his intention all along, he took hold of the front of the statue and swung it shut.
At once I was plunged into darkness. I heard the sound of a bolt sliding home, and knew that I was locked in.
But I did not feel trapped. Instead, for the first time in days, I felt freedom was almost within my grasp. Yes, I was still his prisoner, but no longer his slave. Listening to the sharp, angry sounds of his boot heels retreating, I knew I had just proved to both of us that I was not as helpless, nor he as thoroughly in control, as it had seemed.
From the personal notebook of J. J. Jesperson, Esq.
CC set a guard on the front door and the stage door but never thought of the door in the roof. I have been able to come and go as I please.
Sims on board—stout fellow—and he was good enough to lend me the services of his handyman, a carpenter who does very neat work. Even if CC gives his set another inspection before the show he is unlikely to notice how the statues have been altered.
With a few borrowed books about magic & stagecraft & a good imagination, I have been able to set up some nice illusions. Have been practicing my flying—wish I’d had equipment like this when I was with the traveling show in India; they would have worshipped me as a god.
CC won’t know what’s hit him.
Roll on, show time.
Chapter 28
A View from the Gods
At first the darkness of my prison was absolute, but within a minute or two my eyes had adjusted, and I noticed two spots of light, right at my eye level. When I touched that area I found a scrap of cloth, glued along the top edge. Lifting it, I was startled by the glare and had to blink and wait for my eyes to adjust. When I could see again, I discovered that two eyeholes had been carefully cut out of the wood, offering me a good view of the stage.
I was pleased by this discovery, which made my confinement easier to bear, but I was surprised, remembering Mr. Chase’s comments earlier: Had he not implied that I should be unable to watch the show? But I knew how he liked to mislead and hold back information.
Some time went by—an hour or two—and then I was alerted by a sudden burst of sound to the arrival of others backstage. I heard footsteps coming nearer and then they were on the stage. I peeped out and saw two pretty, slender young girls of identical appearance in yellow dresses, walking slowly, hand in hand. Immediately behind them I recognized a thin, faded spinster in a blue dress—Miss Jessop, and then—the sight made me flinch back, heart pounding—the Cossack.
I took a steadying breath and leaned forward to look out again. Just as I wondered about little Fiorella Gallo, I realized that the Cossack was carrying her close to his chest; she wore a dark red dress the same color as his jacket. Although she was very still, she was not unconscious. Her eyes were closed, but from the rigidity of her body and the fixed line of her mouth, I could see that she was completely aware of her situation and hated it. I wondered if she had tried to make a run for it, and her reward for that act of rebellion was to be carried like a sack of laundry, imprisoned in the Russian’s powerful arms. Was she the example that made the other three females walk so meekly, I wondered, or had they been hypnotized?
I recognized the confident ring of approaching boot heels, but the next figure who appeared on the stage was a stranger—a sad figure who stumbled and lurched, a limping young man in disheveled clothes. The sight of his anguished face, bruised and bleeding as it was, made me catch my breath in sympathetic horror. Scarcely recognizable from his photograph, this was the missing French medium, Monsieur Ribaud. It was evident at once how hard he had fought, and continued to fight, against his captor, and it tore my heart to think he might continue struggling to his death without ever understanding that his resistance only increased Chase’s power over him.
Mr. Chase stepped forward onto the stage, in full evening dress, the diamond pin that twinkled in his tie no more brilliant than his eyes. I could see how he enjoyed himself, drawing power from his prisoner and taking extra pleasure in inflicting pain as he did so.
Monsieur Ribaud shook with the effort, the useless, painful effort of attempting to resist the invisible pressure that forced his every footstep forward. Mr. Chase made a sweeping, theatrical gesture and called out in a booming voice, “You see the gods? Even they respond to my will when I command them to open!”
One by one, each of the towering wooden statues fell open to display their hollow, satin-lined interiors. All but mine, that is. I felt a quiver run through the wood of the door in front of me, and the bolt rattled, but held it firmly shut.
No one questioned why one statue should ignore his command—I suspect his prisoners were all too confused by their situation to wonder at such a detail—but the vanity of Mr. Chase would not risk the possibility that anyone might think his power was less than complete, so he said suavely, “Only Aphrodite, I have given leave to keep her secret for now. But as you see, the gods await you. Miss Amelia, if you would be so obliging as to step inside the statue of Apollo? And Miss Bedelia, you will find a comfortable seat within his twin sister, Artemis.”
The satin lining of each cabinet matched the color of the dress of its intended occupant. I watched as the two young ladies obediently climbed inside. Nor did Miss Jessop make a fuss when she was directed to take her place inside Athena. Signora Gallo was not given an opportunity to disobey; when Mr. Chase indicated the crimson lining of the open figure of Hermes, the Cossack carried her across and deposited her within as his master said with malicious glee, “Hermes, god of luck and travelers, also the god of thieves, signora.”
Now only the unhappy, black-suited figure of Monsieur Ribaud remained on stage, and only the black interior of Zeus remained empty.
“I have saved the most powerful for last. Zeus, king of the gods, shall provide a temporary resting place for you, mon ami. Won’t you step inside?”
I watched anxiously, willing Monsieur Ribaud to accede, for once. Surely he must realize there was no point in continuing to resist? What could
he possibly hope to gain? Had he learned nothing? I would have been willing to bet that never once in all his struggles had the young Frenchman managed to best his captor. And every time he tried, he would have been punished—as his poor, battered face showed. Yet still his stubborn pride insisted; he would never give in.
The young man stood still except for the quivering of his muscles. Mr. Chase gave the dramatic sigh of the put-upon, yet I thought he looked not angry but pleased to have another chance to show off.
“You only hurt yourself, you know,” he remarked, and Monsieur Ribaud’s right hand flew up to slap himself across his own face: first one side, then the other.
“Will you do as I ask?”
The slapping had opened a cut; a small trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth. But the stubborn set of his jaw never relaxed as Monsieur Ribaud shook his head.
“Do you think you will wear me out by making me exert myself unduly before the show—my most important engagement in London? If so, you are mistaken. I have great reserves of power. More than enough to deal with you.” His voice lowered, and his expression darkened, becoming more sinister. “I tell you one last time: Go in.”
He looked frightened, but the young man was no coward. I pitied his foolish pride, but could not help admiring his courage and determination, no matter how misguided. He declared, “I am not your slave.”
Chase smiled. “Oh, but you are. You are my slave for as long as it pleases me. And if you make too much trouble, and it no longer pleases me, then you will be my dead slave.” He raised his arm, hand open like a claw, and made a short throwing gesture. “Go!”
A powerful, invisible force knocked the young Frenchman back on his heels, then lifted him off his feet and propelled him into the open statue. His head hit the satin-lined but solid wooden back wall of the cabinet with a crack that made me wince and elicited gasps from the other ladies. His eyes rolled up in his head until only the whites were visible. His eyelids fluttered, then closed, and he slumped down and sideways in his seat.
I saw a brief but powerful flash of anger twist the usually bland features of Mr. Chase and knew he was annoyed with himself. He had used too much force; an unconscious medium was of no use to him, or so I surmised.
But Mr. Chase regained his self-control in the next moment, and with a wave of his hand caused the front of the cabinet to close, so that the mighty, bearded figure of Zeus frowned down upon the house. Then, one by one, the other god-boxes all shut, hiding away the mediums who would provide the power for whatever wonders he had planned.
Yet perhaps it would not be as easy as Mr. Chase supposed. Although of course I could not wish any permanent harm to Monsieur Ribaud, it might be that he would remain unconscious at least through the early part of the performance. And I guessed that Fiorella had her defenses in place. It would not do to be overconfident, but my earlier encounters with Chase had taught me that I could resist him. Not forever, but it might be enough simply to put obstacles in his way, to slow him down and make him less certain of his own abilities. And if that served to make his powers appear less impressive, if the audience was not convinced that he was the greatest of living mediums, then he might delay his trip to America, and the longer he remained in London, the greater the chance of our escape and his arrest.
I saw Mr. Chase turn in my direction, and hastily let the cloth fall over the eyeholes and sat back—I would give him no chance to catch my gaze. It had occurred to me that this must be why he had drilled the holes. He did not need to look into my eyes to gain control over me, but it would make it easier for him to hypnotize me.
Outside the statue, he lowered his voice to speak to me alone. “I am sorry you were unable to see what just happened, Miss Lane. You have missed the instructive example of what befalls those who try to thwart me.”
Why was he pretending I had no way of seeing beyond the walls that imprisoned me? Did he think I had not uncovered the secret? Or—was it possible he did not know? That someone else had made the spyholes?
The thought made me breathless with hope.
“Miss Lane?”
Was that the sharpness of worry in his voice? I held my breath and said nothing. After a moment, I sensed something like that tendril I described before, feeling for my presence. I could compare the experience to a game of hide-and-seek in a dark house, with Mr. Chase the seeker. He believes I am near, and so walks in boldly with his arms outstretched, expecting to encounter me at once. But I keep still and take my cue from the sound of his movements to slip to one side whenever he comes too near…
In a game, the seeker would know this and take equal care to listen for my movements, to catch me out—but Mr. Chase had no idea. He thought he had only to reach out, and he’d find me. He was alarmed by my inexplicable absence.
The bolt slid back and the door of my prison swung wide, the sudden flood of light making me screw up my eyes.
“Miss Lane. Why did you not answer me?”
I blinked and essayed a yawn.
“Were you asleep?”
I peered at him with a slight frown, trying to look innocently puzzled. “Why…yes. I think so. You told me to sleep.”
“Ah. So I did.” I could not tell if he was reassured, or if he found something suspect in my manner. “Very well. But for the next few hours you must remain awake and alert. I need you awake but also quiet.” Fixing my gaze with his—too late to escape—he leaned in and placed his finger gently against my lips as he said softly, “Not a word.”
As soon as he had withdrawn, I opened my mouth to ask a question—I had in mind a query about whether I was to be called onto the stage during his show, to further establish my naïveté—but not a sound could I utter.
He shook his head with a mocking smile. “Remember what I said? Not another word from you—not until it’s over.”
Chapter 29
The Show Begins
I sat in the dark and silence, and waited.
Outside my box, away from the stage, the theatre was slowly coming to life. At first there were only occasional, random noises: distant voices, a shout, laughter, footsteps, the sounds of things being moved around.
The orchestra arrived; I listened to them settling into their places in the pit and tuning their instruments. Soon afterward came the audience, at first a trickle, then a steady stream, and finally a torrent, the muffled, murmuring roar of life beyond the curtain.
There were occasional footsteps on the stage, and although I did not recognize the confident click of Chase’s boot heels among them, still I did not quite dare to lift the fabric that masked my peepholes and look out, for fear that he might be prowling, on the alert for anything different. The thought that I might peek out and catch his eyes looking back sent a chill down my spine. I had rather leave that chance for after the show had started, and the eyes of hundreds were fixed upon the stage; then, I thought, if I surprised him, his surprise might work against him.
Someone, a stranger, was speaking, telling someone else that the house was full, and people wanting tickets were being turned away. He was so close, I thought about trying to attract his attention and opened my mouth to yell. It was no good; my vocal chords were still locked by my captor’s command. True, I could knock, but if I could not explain to the stagehand why I was there, I’d get no help. Chase was bound to be near at hand, and he would come up with some story about the “nerves” of his “assistant” before locking me up again. My fists uncurled.
“He’s the talk of the town,” said another voice. “They say he’s the real thing, no conjurer, but a miracle worker, and he does it all with the aid of the spirits.”
“Spirits, is it?” said the first man. “Is that what he calls them? Pagan gods, they are. And if they’re not Christian, my old mam would call them demons.”
“C of E don’t have the monopoly on God. You know Chase is an American—”
“That don’t mean he ain’t a Christian.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve heard that when
he’s done here tonight, he’s going back to America to start his own religion.”
My eyes widened in the darkness. The other man chuckled. “You don’t say? Well, then, if he succeeds, tonight should go down in history.”
They went away. The orchestra began to play “The Ghost Melody” from The Corsican Brothers, and when it ended, the curtain rose. I lifted the flap that had covered the eyeholes and looked out to see Christopher Clement Chase standing in a single spotlight that left the rest of the stage shrouded in darkness.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome. It is my privilege to appear before you tonight, as it will be your privilege to witness wonders—things that many would say are impossible. Yet they will truly happen just as they appear on this stage, before your very eyes. No matter how incredible, there is no trickery involved. I am no mere conjurer or stage magician. Indeed, I would never call myself a magician. The powers I intend to display tonight are not my own, but rather a gift from the spirit world—for reasons I do not claim to understand, the spirits have chosen me as their conduit to the material world. I—”
A great, rolling crash of thunder interrupted his speech—it was stage thunder, produced in the rafters, and from the shocked expression on the speaker’s face, it came as an unpleasant surprise.
Before he had recovered enough to say anything more, a second light glowed upon the stage behind him. A pale, ghostly figure appeared, hovering several feet behind Chase and to his left. The audience stirred, emitting little ripples of surprise and amusement. It was funny, because Chase appeared oblivious—a moment so redolent of pantomime that I expected a chorus of “It’s behind you!” to ring out.
But the next sound came, like the thunder, from above, a booming, magnified voice that roared: “Foolish little man! Fake! Mountebank! The spirits reject you and your claims of power!”
