by P. N. Elrod
“Indeed? For what purpose?” That any creature from the pit might find me worthy of attention or use seemed unlikely. I had considered the possibility at length, as an explanation for my changed state, then dismissed the absurdity.
“That has not yet been decided.”
“Who is it that thinks so?”
His lips uncompromisingly sealed, Jericho busied himself at brushing lint from the shoulders of my coat.
“I hope you have discouraged such idle gossip,” I said, adjusting my neck cloth. It had become rather tight in the last few moments.
“There will be no problems from it. I only mentioned this because you were seen.”
“Doing what?”
“Something . . . extraordinary. The person I spoke to said he saw you . . . flying.”
“Oh.” My belly suddenly churned.
“Of course, no one believed him, but his fear disturbed the more gullible.”
“You hardly surprise me.” One or two of our slaves, not as well educated as Jericho, would certainly be prey to all sorts of midnight imaginings, especially if they’d been listening to fanciful tales before bedtime. But if they had seen something they shouldn’t . . . .
“You do fly, do you not, Mr. Jonathan?” Jericho’s face was utterly expressionless.
I gulped to keep my voice steady. “Well, if I could—what of it?”
There was a lengthy pause before he replied. “Then I would suggest that you be considerably more discreet about it.”
My belly ceased churning and went stone still. “You . . . you’ve seen me?”
“Yes.”
Oh, dear.
He stopped brushing at lint and turned his attention to the shelves in my already orderly wardrobe.
“You seem to have taken it rather calmly.”
“I assure you, I was most disturbed when I saw you floating over the treetops yesterday evening . . . .”
“But . . . ?”
“But you looked happy,” he admitted. “I concluded that anything capable of giving such joy must not be a bad thing. Besides, my bomba has told me tales of his childhood about men turning themselves into animals. If a man can learn the magic to become a lion or a bird, then why can a man not learn the magic to fly?”
“This is not magic, Jericho.” At least, I didn’t THINK so.
“Are you so sure? Then what is it that turns a tiny seed into a tree? Is that not a kind of magic?”
“Now you’re speaking of science, of philosophy.”
He shook his head. “I speak only of what’s been said. If I choose to ascribe all that has happened to you to magic, then it is magic.”
“Or superstition.”
“That comes in only when one is afraid or ignorant. I am neither, but I have adopted an explanation that is . . . tolerable to me.”
“Maybe I should adopt it for myself, as well. Nothing else I’ve considered has come close to accounting for things so handily. Especially things like this.” I touched my miraculously healed arm.
“And this?” he asked, his hand hovering over a small mirror that lay face down on one of the shelves.
“Yes, that, too. You can get rid of it, y’know.” Since my change, I’d found that particular item of vanity to be singularly useless, not to mention unsettling. It had given me a sharp turn the first time I’d looked into a mirror and not seen a damned thing except the room where I should have been. I’d briefly and irrationally worried that that was what I’d become: “a damned thing,” hence the question of demonic intrusion into my life. My father and I discussed it thoroughly, for I was upset at the time, but we’d been unable to explain the phenomenon. Perhaps Jericho was right and it was magic.
“As you wish,” he said, tucking the offending glass into a pocket. “Does Mr. Barrett know about the flying? Or Miss Elizabeth?”
“Not yet.” How to explain that to Father and my sister was not a task I’d put much thought into. “I’ll tell them about it later. The news won’t grow stale for waiting. And I promise to take your advice and be more discreet.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.”
After a moment, I added, somewhat shyly, “It’s . . . not really flying, y’ know.”
He waited for me to go on.
“I sort of float upon the air like a leaf. But I can move against the wind or with it as I choose.”
He thought that over for a long time. “What is it like?”
A grin, then a soft laugh bubbled right out of me. “It’s absolutely wonderful!”
* * *
Indeed it was. Last night I’d done the impossible and broken away from the grasp of the earth to soar in the sky freer than any bird. It was surely the most remarkable portion of the legacy I’d come into since my . . . well . . . death.
Or rather, my change.
The details of that particular story—of my violent murder and escape from the grave—have been recounted elsewhere. Let it suffice for now that upon my return, I soon discovered I’d acquired the same characteristics that governed the waking life of a certain Miss Nora Jones, a lady with whom I had shared an intimate liaison.
Liaison. Such a scandalous word, implying secrets and intrigues.
How accurate, too. The lady’s life had swarmed with secrets, her very existence maintained by constant and ongoing intrigues. Nothing truly hurtful, for she had the kindest of hearts, but not the sorts of things a gentleman is inclined to speak of openly.
But the truth of it is I’d been quite deliriously in love with her and still was, and love is most forgiving, turning large faults into small eccentricities. At the time I’d been certain she returned those feelings in kind, that she loved me just as much. My certitude was less robust now, because of her treatment of me during our last days together. She had dealt with me as I had with poor Beldon, using a strange kind of influence that caused me to forget all that was important between us. I was slowly approaching the belief that she’d done it to spare me undue sorrow when we finally parted. Had she known those memories would come bounding back after my astonishing resurrection? Had she anticipated any of it?
If she had loved me, then her passion inspired her to bestow upon me a most strange legacy, the peculiar aspects of which I was still attempting to grasp.
Her dark gift manifested after my death, somehow changed me, enabled me to forsake whatever lay beyond the veil and return to walk the earth, a living man, yet not wholly alive.
Like Nora, I was now able to influence the minds and thoughts of anyone around me, thus allowing a resumption of life with my family almost as though no calamity had ever happened. Because of my ability to influence, the curiosity of poor Dr. Beldon, along with many others, would go forever unfulfilled.
In addition to that, ill luck and chance had revealed to me the secret of how to heal swiftly and completely. Linked to it was the ability to fly . . . so to speak. Though I’d never actually witnessed Nora indulging in such a pursuit, I had no doubt that she was capable of doing it, since my own condition so completely replicated her own.
I was also unable to bear sunlight, which might be considered a heavy burden, but for the fact that my eyes were so improved. The night had become my day; the stars and moon my welcome companions in the sky. When the sun was up, I slept—or tried to; I had dire difficulties there, but more on that later.
My strength was that of a young Hercules, and my other senses enjoyed similar improvements. Each evening I discovered a new delight to the ear, a fresh appreciation of touch, and, though I was not required to breathe regularly unless I chose to speak, I could pick out and identify a scent almost as well as one of our hunting hounds. Taste had also undergone significant alteration, though I no longer exercised it upon what was considered normal provender.
For, like Nora, I had come to subsist solely upon blood for my sustenance.
But again, more on that later.
* * *
“What are you writing, little brother?” asked Elizabeth, peering across the library as she walked in from the adjoining music room. Her nightly practice at the spinet was ended, but I’d been so absorbed in my task that I’d not noticed the silence settle upon the house.
“A letter to Cousin Oliver,” I replied, glancing up. It was a mild September, too soon to commence the general use of the fireplaces, but she’d draped a shawl about her shoulders. There was no chill in the air that I could perceive, but Elizabeth, like many of her sex, was sensitive to the cold. Come the winter she would wrap herself like a Russian princess and practically live by the fire.
She drifted toward the cold fireplace, as if memory of its warmth might return. Hanging above the mantel was a portrait of our mother when she was about Elizabeth’s age. I could not help but notice that in this light at least, they bore a marked resemblance to each other with their milky skin and dark hair. Elizabeth would not thank me for the association. Mother was a brusque, impossible person to get along with on her best days, and Elizabeth’s relationship with her was especially difficult. Tonight had been rather peaceful, though; they’d not exchanged two words.
The early part of the evening passed pleasantly enough amid familial congratulations on my recovery. Diverting attention from myself, I had given all the credit to Dr. Beldon, much to his enjoyment. Father and Elizabeth, who, along with Jericho, knew the full truth about my changed nature, required a more detailed account, which I’d promised, but had yet to provide. By subtle gesture and with a well placed word or two, I gave them to understand that my healing was connected to my change, and thus not a topic for general discussion. We quietly arranged to talk later. As I had no interest in Mother’s card game and was too restless to read, I’d taken sanctuary in the library to deal with some necessary correspondence.
“Another letter? But you just sent one only . . . .” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off as recollection visibly asserted itself on her face. “Oh.”
“Indeed. Much has occurred since my last missive. I’m wondering just how much of the happenings here should be recounted to him. He would find it highly disturbing if he believed me or think I’ve gone raving mad if he didn’t. I think I shall have to err on the side of discretion.” Meaning Oliver would not know of my death and change.
She thought about that awhile, then came over to stand next to Father’s desk, where I happened to be working. “I have something for you,” she said, pulling a flat packet from her skirt pocket. I instantly recognized it.
“My journal!”
She gave it over. “I kept it apart from your other things when Mother had your room cleaned out. I was afraid she’d either throw it away or read it herself, and I didn’t think you’d have liked either of those choices.”
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Thank you.”
“I didn’t read it,” she added.
This surprised me, not because Elizabeth was a prying sort of person, but because at the time she’d thought me dead. “Why not?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to. These are your words and your thoughts, I just couldn’t bear the idea of reading them so soon after . . . . Anyway, I wanted only to keep them safe. From her. I don’t know what I hated most, her utter coldness over you or the way she ransacked your room like a bloody vulture.”
Mother again. “It’s over now.”
Elizabeth put her hand on mine as though to reassure herself of my solidity. “Yes, thank God.”
“It would have been all right if you had read it. There’s nothing in here I would have minded sharing with you and Father.”
She smiled at that. “But you’re back and there’s no need.”
“May there never be another,” I solemnly intoned, putting my hand over my heart.
That brought forth another smile, which was most pleasing. It was the chief difference between her and Mother. Elizabeth loved to laugh. Her good humor and mine restored, I picked up my pen and regarded the sheet of paper before me, wondering what to put down next.
“Mind if I keep you company?” From one of the desk drawers she pulled out a penknife and some goose quills.
“I should welcome it,” I said absently.
Taking a chair next to the desk and close to my candles, she began carving a point on one of the quills. “Oliver was your best friend in England, and family. He should know the truth about you. You could find a way of explaining it to him.”
A soft laugh escaped me. “He’d think that the Fonteyn half of my blood had finally boiled my brain. Did I ever mention to you that tour we took of Bedlam?”
“In noxious detail.” She steadily sliced away on a quill, pausing only to narrowly inspect the results of her work.
“I’ve no wish for Oliver to regard me as a potential inmate, so be assured that the details of my recent experience will find no place here.”
“Then what—”
“Nora. By telling Oliver about myself, I would have to include Nora’s name in the story, which would be a breach of trust. She exercised a great deal of effort in keeping her own nature a close secret. I must respect that.”
This temporarily halted Elizabeth’s inquiries, and I read again my few lines assuring Oliver of my continued good health and a wish for the same for him. I had to pause think how to proceed. Before leaving England for home some months ago, I’d asked him to keep an eye on Nora for me and in such a way as to leave no doubt that my relationship with her had quite ended. My lightness of attitude quite puzzled my poor cousin, considering his awareness that Nora and I had been passionate lovers for nearly three years.
But, of course, he didn’t know Nora had caused me to forget all that.
I wasn’t sure if I should curse her or bless her for what she’d done to me. Some nights I did both. This was one of those nights, and they happened more and more frequently as my memories of her returned. Though she had committed a great wrong against me, I yet loved and missed her terribly.
“Ow!”
Elizabeth had a mishap with the razor-sharp penknife. She ruefully held her finger close to the candle to inspect the damage, then stopped, her gaze suddenly shifting up to meet mine.
“Be more careful,” I said, trying not to stare at the pin point sized drop of blood welling from the nick.
She lowered her hand slightly. “Does this trouble you?”
“Why should it?”
“Because you’ve an odd look on your face. Are you hungry?”
“No, I am not hungry.” Not yet. Later, after everyone was asleep and the world was quiet, I’d slip out and . . . .
“Then what?”
“I can smell it,” I whispered, not without a feeling of awe.
She brought her finger to her nose and sniffed, then shrugged at her failure to sense it. “A little speck like this?”
“Yes. It hangs in the air like perfume.”
“That must be interesting for you,” she observed, one eyebrow arching. She wiped away the blood on her handkerchief. Picking up the quill, she gingerly resumed her delicate work with the knife.
Disturbing, more like, I thought, unable to ignore the scent and the reactions it aroused within me. I ran my tongue over my teeth. There, the two points on my upper jaw, a slight swelling, not painful . . . quite the opposite, in fact.
“Jonathan?”
“It’s nothing,” I said.
But she seemed to know what I was hiding.
“Sweet God, Jonathan, you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Really.”
“Then why the glower?”
I made a fist and bumped it lightly against the desk, then opened it flat. “I’m not sure I . . . that I’m . . . comfortable with this part of what’s happened to me.”
“You do what you do
because you have to.”
“Yes, but I’ve . . . I worry about what people might think should they find out.”
“No one else knows but me, Father, and Jericho. We don’t speak of it, and none of us are likely to blurt it out.”
“As though it’s something shameful.”
“Something private,” she corrected. “Like your journal.”
Unable to endure her steady, sensible gaze, I shoved my pen into a cup of lead shot and stood up to pace.
Elizabeth continued to watch me. “Come now and listen to yourself. Worrying about what others may think is the sort of nonsense that bedevils Mother. There’s no need for you to pay mind to that same voice, or you could end up like her.”
All too true. I had been haunted by a miserable dark chorus muttering of nothing but doubt and doom. “It’s just that most of the time everything is as it was before my . . . return. And yet”—I gestured vaguely— “everything is so different. I’m different.”
She did not gainsay me. The changes within that had literally brought me back from the grave were profound, and their full influence upon how I now lived were only just being realized. I slept, if one could call it that, the whole day through, unable to stir for as long as the sun was up. Since the household held to an exactly opposite habit, my enjoyment of its society was limited. Except for a few hours in the evening before everyone went to bed I was alone. Very much alone.
As for Elizabeth’s little accident . . . well, it was yet another reminder of an appetite that the world would look upon as disgusting or at least react to with alarm and fear.
I paused by the bookcase and stared at the titles within without reading them. “Remember the night I . . . came back?”
She nodded. It was not likely either of us would forget.
“After we’d captured the rebels, two of Nash’s Hessians escorted me to Mrs. Montagu’s. I thought I’d gotten rid of them, but they came back and saw me in her barn with her horses . . . feeding myself.”
