The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  “Thank you. I’m worried about you Jack. You should have heard the messages you left me. Christ, it was like Talent Night at the asylum.” He flinched and I knew he didn’t want to go there. Acquiesced and satisfied, I changed the subject. “So tell me about this place you have in Nova Scotia. You’ve been secretive about it.”

  I shivered suddenly when I realized that Jack had opened all the windows in the room. Autumn’s chilling grasp was on the city. Mornings and evenings were particularly cold. Winter wasn’t far away, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I was freezing. An imploring stare at Jack didn’t help, but he seemed quite comfortable in his woolly crewneck. Late autumn sounds permeated the room as if they had suddenly drifted in, but I didn’t notice them until I realized how cold it was.

  The distant mayhem of traffic and the concert of random city noises reminded me that this peaceful setting was just a façade. There was a raging, vibrant city which surrounded this empty home. Gusts of wind howled and whipped at the casement windows. But most disturbingly, the haunting cackle of crows was lame, forlorn, and rife with harsh warning.

  “Caw caw.”

  I shivered while Jack warmed up to my question about Nova Scotia. He jumped up before I could mention the windows. I quickly got up and closed them after he darted out of the room. I was turning the handle of the third one when I espied the large moving trucks. Filled with crates. It appeared that the move was nearly complete.

  Most of the movers wore fall jackets which covered t-shirts that barely covered beer-bellies. They scurried inside the trucks, ensuring that everything was safely stored for transit. They were little ants, making the necessary arrangements for a long winter.

  Curiosity spread through my mind as I watched. What do those crates contain? Perhaps an odd thing to wonder, but there were six full-length semis parked there, and Jack indicated that this was part two of the move. Even though the contents of his mansion were undoubtedly abundant, something felt wrong. I shook my head and tried to clear my mind of this unsettling thought while I clamped the last window shut and sat down.

  Large rolls of papers that appeared to be blueprints filled Jack’s arms when he returned. As he unraveled them my curiosity got the best of me. Disturbing thoughts, which chilled my soul more than any autumn breeze ever could, left my mind for the time-being. He unfurled one of the rolls and placed it before me on the coffee table. While I’ve never been good with spatial concepts or even at reading blueprints, I found it most interesting. Chanting crows warned me not to look, but I began to pore over the document. I hated those birds.

  “Caw caw caw.”

  It was a design for a house. At least I thought it was a house. I can’t compare it to any geometric reference. Its perimeter had jutting structures that traveled in irregular, random directions. Smooth and lacking any specific angles in themselves, there appeared to be no pattern to their dispersion. They were random, or so it seemed. For while my mind processed the shape, something was familiar. But it was just out of reach. It was as if they were calculatedly random.

  Skeletal lines identified rooms throughout the house. They were no less random in their shapes and sizes, but the main focus of the diagram was on large misshapen rooms that bore curious names. Instead of ‘Living Room’ ‘Den’ or ‘Kitchen,’ I saw ‘Bacon Study,’ ‘Shakespeare Library,’ and ‘Blake Solarium.’ It was peppered with rooms like this. Each one referenced a great artist or prolific thinker. They were as random and irregular in their layout as the house which contained it. Scattered and inefficient in their connectivity, I still sensed some kind of elusively familiar pattern.

  The blueprint told me that the house was 77,777 square feet. An oddly-contrived number and mammoth by anyone’s standards. Along the top of the page and written in fine blueprint text was the name of the monstrosity: ‘Icarus Manor.’

  “Caw caw.”

  I shivered and listened to the traffic in the distance. Wind whipped through the casements and a cold gust of air poured over my feverish face. Intently-focused on the blueprint, I hadn’t noticed when Jack went around the room and re-opened the windows. Irritated, I was still fascinated with what I was looking at. I sipped the last of my Scotch and offered the empty glass to Jack in expectation of a faithful refill. He shook his head and gestured toward the front of the house.

  “Last of the Scotch. Everything else is in the trucks.” Devastated, I placed the glass next to the blueprint. He startled me when he swooped in and scooped the glass off the table. Gingerly lifting one edge of the blueprint, he inspected it for moisture and then shot me an irritated look as he lifted the print and rolled it into a careful tube.

  “Does it have any bathrooms?” He scowled at me and I chose to back off.

  “Jack, this is quite the…” I struggled for words that weren’t there. Suddenly I wondered if the meds had ever worked.

  Is he insane or simply eccentric? That was my litmus test for Intervention. But it always came back inconclusive. After all, when had Jack ever shown any signs of having sensibility or rationale?

  “This is going to cost you a fortune. Who designed it?” He smiled, thankful that I asked.

  “Ever heard of Astrid Ivvaldsen?” No. Should I have?

  “She’s a well-known architect from Oslo. I read about her a couple of years ago in a trade journal. She only works for private clients who can afford her fees. And those who meet her specific standards. Money isn’t enough.”

  “What kind of standards?’

  “Astrid is a true artisan. It’s said she’s a direct blood descendent of Leif Erickson. She’s also a Druid High Priestess.”

  “Huh?”

  “A Druid.”

  “They were tree worshippers, weren’t they?” His condescending smile patronized me.

  “Mal, I expected better than that from you. The Druids were a group of elite philosophers, lawmakers, artisans, scientists, poets and theologians. They also specialized in healing and divination. They date back to 4,000 BC. Their main belief was in the supreme power of the universe and the immortality of the soul.”

  I nodded dumbly while Jack lectured me on Druids. The nobility of the time sent their children to study with them, for in matters of schooling, law and religion, their authority was absolute. Druid-to-be training was rumored to be twenty years long, and they typically conducted all public rituals, held within sacred groves of trees.

  The Romans feared them for the reverence that they commanded with commoners. Apparently, it was this reverence that foiled Caesar’s plan to invade Britain in 55 BC. Caesar subsequently ordered the slaughter of all Druids, and nearly succeeded in his genocidal plan. Many Druids were forced to convert to Christianity, and the Church of Rome absorbed many of their Pagan beliefs. Pagan Gods became Christian Saints and Druid wells became sacred spots for baptisms.

  By the 7th Century AD, Christian Monks were trying to erase all Pagan symbols and the Druids went into hiding for fear of persecution. Their society went underground, but it resurfaced in 17th Century England and thrives today.

  I wondered why I asked.

  “Thanks for the history lesson, Jack. But what about Astrid?’ He was delighted to sideline his lecture if it meant talking about how he persuaded the tree-lady to design this monstrosity for him.

  “She’s a Druid High Priestess, as I’ve told you,” I made a rotating gesture with my hand, an impatient instruction to move it along. “She needed to ensure that my soul is pure before she accepted the commission.” I thanked God that I didn’t have Scotch in my mouth when he said it. Scotch shooting out of the nose – especially good Scotch – stings, and it’s a terrible waste.

  “Pure of soul? You?” He fabricated a look of dejection and I thought about having fun with it. But I remembered how unstable he was, so I acquiesced.

  “Alright, sorry. How did she go about proving the purity of your soul, Lancelot?” The look on his face was curious.

  “That, my friend, I cannot tell you. Except to say that it’s a ra
rely-evoked ritual which predates Christ, the Romans, the Spartans and the Egyptians.”

  “Rarely-evoked?”

  “Yes.” The strange humor in Jack’s face told me that he was recollecting the ritual. The hollow eyes that I knew so well tried to speak of agony, but Jack’s mouth wasn’t taking directions from his eyes.

  “It’s only the second time that she’s done this.”

  “The ritual?”

  “No.” Jack leaned forward with a dark look that warned more than it warmed.

  “Designed a house.” Beads of sweat clung to his brow like frightened children and he trembled. But I checked to see if it was actually me doing the trembling. His eyes are still etched in my brain. Filled with a message far beyond Jack’s boyishness, they couldn’t describe what he felt, even though they wanted to. They were sullen, foreign pools.

  If I had to make an educated guess? Once blue eyes were black as coal, and his soul was colored with the same pigment. All I could see were the cold black eyes of ravens and crows.

  “Caw caw caw.”

  The crow’s haunting wail reminded me of the empty glass in my hand. I must have picked it up unwittingly. I placed it on the lone piece of furniture in the house that wasn’t occupied by a human ass. Its loud hollow clank made me jump inwardly as it resounded through the halls of the barren home, like a church bell tolling for a lost soul.

  Chapter 36

  I sat there for several minutes, morbidly disturbed by Jack’s revelation.

  “So what are you saying?” Somewhere in the distance a lawnmower droned and I wondered who would mow their lawn at the end of October.

  Intellectually, I knew that what he suggested was ridiculous and eccentric. But emotionally, I knew Jack only too well. This was a natural progression for a man with obscene amounts of money and nothing to care about. No matter how perverted the manifestation of his obsession became, this was pattern Jack.

  I wondered why I even worried about it. I suppose my discomfort was guided by my feelings. Trepidation and fear gripped me like a lifeless mouse in a hawk’s beak. And Jack’s eyes were the savage ripping of flesh that ensued.

  My soul was filled with Elizabeth. I confronted and battled for ten years, to drive her out of my soul. One call threatened to change all that. My parole from hell.

  But in the midst of that, the man sitting in front of me had just told me that he was about to direct his entire fortune and life-focus into a private museum. What was wrong with that? It seemed harmless at face value. But something told me it was anything but harmless.

  I tried to justify it. It was Jack after all. I had known him to have some pretty insane ideas. But his strange obsession manifested itself into things that were entirely beyond my comprehension. I never knew him at all. I didn’t even understand what drove him.

  Combined with Elizabeth’s summary return and considering that I had a long and storied past with the both of them, the entire crust of life that had formed around me appeared to be crumbling.

  I was so tired. I didn’t want to think about any of it. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to feel. Sadly, I had no choice but to be thrust into these things, and they would forever scar this once untainted soul.

  I remembered watching him as he ruthlessly smashed her heart. I listened to him while he proudly told me how he dodged jail time. I saw him lathered in blood and outrageous passion. None of this was imagined, nor was any of it bathed in hyperbole. I experienced this mania. I had a front-row seat.

  Chill gusts of wind continued to blow through the window and I looked at Jack with an irritated plea. Close the damn windows! He didn’t notice. Or more likely, he didn’t care.

  “What would you like me to say? It’s obvious that you don’t have a fucking clue!” He snorted and jabbed his finger at the blueprints rolled neatly and sitting beside him. “I can tell that you don’t even have the slightest comprehension of what I’m trying to do.” And then an obvious afterthought, “If I told you, even then you wouldn’t understand why this is so significant. Why it’s so important.

  “You envy me, don’t you?” I had been looking off into the distance, but the sudden implication forced me to turn back to him. It made me look guilty. Damn, that’s all I need. He had things on me that I cursed myself for letting him have. I wasn’t about to give him this. I avoided the question and attacked him where he lived.

  “So you’ve designed this incredible house and spent a fortune doing it. Obviously. Frankly, I don’t understand it. I mean, really Jack. What is this? Some kind of lame legacy? What the fuck do you plan on doing with it? You talk about it like it’ll be some kind of benefit to mankind. What benefit, Jack? I’ll tell you. Nothing. This is nothing more than a rich kid satisfying his own selfish vanity.”

  One hand gently stroked the rolls of blueprints which sat beside his chair. It was then that I noticed the Icarus amulet, which hung loosely around his neck. He fondled it while he reveled in his plans and expected me to do the same. I won’t call it caressing, but if it had been a woman I would have left the room for fear of seeing something best left behind closed doors.

  “What do I plan on doing with it?” His words pecked at me in mocking, scornful bites and his face adopted a sneering scowl. “I already told you what I plan to do with it.” I peered at him and raised my eyebrows.

  “Art?” I was willing to play his game for the sake of keeping him from freaking out, but my response didn’t implicate understanding. He smiled at me

  “Art.” I shook my head in disbelief and was about to say something wry when he cut me off.

  “But not just art. You don’t understand Mal! It’s not just about paintings and sculptures. These are priceless pieces. The greatest work from the greatest thinkers in history. Poets, playwrights, philosophers, writers. Craftsmen, blacksmiths, gunsmiths, engineers, architects. Sculptors, painters, artisans.

  “These are mystical divinations that course with magical and ethereal spirit. Each one has a piece of the artist fused into it. I own a piece of Gainsborough. I own Michelangelo. I own Shakespeare’s ass, Mal! I own it all.” He finished his homily and stared at me as if he expected a resounding ‘HALLELUJAH!’

  ”Do you have any idea why I’m doing this?”

  “No. Okay, I’ll bite. Why are you doing this?”

  “You don’t get it.” He spoke with a firm, even tone but the barely-controlled irritation that permeated his demeanor swam to the surface.

  “You really don’t get it.” My ignorance stopped being a source of irritation and instead became a horrible slight. Apparently, levied squarely upon Jack. A dark ugly cloud formed around his face, and fingers which only recently caressed the amulet, had it in a deadly grasp. I was sure that the fingers that grasped it could just as easily have wrapped themselves around my throat. I sunk into my chair and watched the foul angry look that stormed his face. The meds were going to take time, but I didn’t have the luxury of time.

  “Jack, I’m just saying…“ He jumped out of his chair and pointed at me with an accusatory finger.

  “NO! You’ve always been jealous of me. My money, Elizabeth. Everything that I had that you didn’t. And now you’re just letting jealousy get in the way of sharing my ultimate dream with me! I thought you were my friend.”

  I stared up at him. He was dead serious. I didn’t know how to respond to this, knowing what I knew about this man. He was right on the cusp of snapping and frankly, I was terrified of him. I needed to calm him down. Right away.

  “Jack….” Just then, one of the movers came in and I breathed a sigh of relief. A cigarette hung loosely out of his mouth and he reeked of sweat and stale beer, but I was ecstatic at his timing.

  “We’re done. You want us to take that stuff?” He gestured toward the furniture we were occupying. Jack nodded in sullen acquiescence and stood up.

  “Take it.” Jack peered at me with Hell-filled eyes, never taking them off me as he responded to the mover. I got up out of the chair and watched wit
h momentary relief as the burly man peeled off three stickers and placed them on the three pieces of furniture. He scrawled their numbers on the paper attached to his clipboard and gave it to Jack for his signature. Jack hastily signed it and waited while the men came in, wrapped the chairs in blankets, and left.

  We faced each other. He appeared to have calmed a bit, perhaps thanks to the burly mover’s distraction. Whatever the reason, I was thankful. His face was still filled with rage, but he looked as if he was thinking what to say. I prayed. I prayed that he would snap back to his jovial self, the way he had done so many times before.

  We gripped our empty glasses for different reasons and I wondered what I could say to smooth this over. Jack fondled the Amulet and clutched the blueprints under his left armpit. The silence screamed in my ears until I thought I’d be deafened. I needed to stop this.

  “Jack….”

  “No. Don’t bother. You never understood me. I know that you envy the fact that I have it all and you don’t. But Mal, I thought you, of all people…you…” he emphasized the words like I was a lover who cheated on him, and he gritted his teeth when he said ‘you’ “…I thought at least you would understand. I thought you’d understand what I’m trying to do. Of all people, I thought you would understand what I’m becoming.”

  He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. While this transpired over the matter of a couple of minutes, it felt like the clock of my life had ticked out a year. Finally, Jack sighed and turned his back to me. He walked away and as he did, he looked at the glass in his hand. As if he were only just realizing it was there. He flung it against the wall without missing his stride.

  “Fuck!” he roared as he stomped out of the room. The word echoed with shattering glass through the empty hallways of my mind, and then faded.

  Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.

  I stood in the deserted study and listened as Jack’s Jaguar screeched away. Barely-muted diesel engines powered up, and retreated as quickly as they assaulted. The trucks drifted away with Jack’s life in tow.