Transcendent

by K. M. Szpara

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you what I did on my summer vacation.” Her cousin’s intensity was startling. Her prominent brown eyes were shining like stars as her lips pulled back from her white teeth. Veronica couldn’t help but compare her to the mild-mannered, sweet-tempered girl she had once been. “I looked into a well of absolute darkness, a well without a bottom, full to the brim with writhing whispers blacker than the darkness. I looked—and I listened.”

  “What…what was in the well?”

  “Laughter. It laughed at me. The darkness, I mean. A hole full of nothing, absolute nothing, and it laughed at me.”

  “What did you do?”

  Asenath stood up, looking around as if to see if anyone had witnessed her losing her cool. “Doesn’t matter. But I tell you what…after that, I decided to live every day like it was my last, and I advise you to do the same. There’s no heaven. There’s no hell. There’s only you, me and this.” She gestured to the hallway. “The things beyond this world don’t give a shit what you do—if you pray, if you’re good, or if you’re bad, according to some outdated notions of propriety.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself,” said Veronica.

  Asenath shook her head. “I’ve always been this way. The only thing that’s changed is that I know it’s not worth hiding it.”

  The bell rang, and students poured out of the cafeteria. Veronica flinched away from Asenath, instinctively, which made the other girl laugh.

  “See you around, Veronica,” she said.

  Veronica barely paid attention to her classes the rest of the day. Asenath’s speech had shaken her. What she really needed was a good, hard practice to drive everything from her mind, but of course, Asenath showed up, to everyone’s delight but hers.

  Asenath seemed full of a savage fury that day. Her jumps were high, her kicks, higher. The term “flyer” had never been so apropos. She seemed to hover above everyone when she was lifted and hang in the air for an unnaturally long time on the dismounts. Ms. Van Helder was so enthusiastic about her prospects toward the end of practice, she suggested Asenath try a scorpion instead of a full liberty after being popped up.

  As Asenath executed the move perfectly, Veronica turned away, reminding herself that jealousy was a sin. Uncle Ephraim was sitting on the lowest bleacher. He was always in attendance when Asenath came to practice, gaunt and horrible in his big weird coat, a Miskatonic pennant clutched in his clawlike hands.

  After his outburst the first day, he had remained largely silent, hunched into himself and watching them all with unwavering attention, but today, he seemed agitated. He shifted on his seat, twitching. The sight of Asenath in a scorpion further perturbed him. When she fell into the basketed hands of her fellow cheerleaders, he uttered a grotesque, bubbling cry.

  Veronica was the only one who heard him, so she was the only one unsurprised when he began to holler and snort as Asenath tried the move a second time. Asenath wobbled and fell; her cohorts caught her, but there was no saving her from the old man’s wrath.

  “Thief!” he cried, staggering toward her. “Mine! It’s mine!”

  “Asenath,” said Ms. Van Helder, as Asenath stood unsteadily, “are you—is he—”

  “It’s fine,” said Asenath, through gritted teeth.

  “Thief! Wolf in sheep’s clothing!” The old man drew nearer, but Asenath wasn’t waiting around—she began to advance on him. “Give it back—it’s mine!”

  “Shut up!” she snapped, grabbing his arm.

  “Mine!” he cried, running his crabbed hand down her smooth arm.

  “Maybe it was, but not anymore!” she shouted in his face.

  “Asenath, your father’s not well,” said Ms. Van Helder, putting her hand on the girl’s other arm. “You should—”

  “Don’t touch me!” cried Asenath, wrenching herself free of both their grasps. Her father, unsteady on his feet, fell to the ground with a heart-wrenching yelp.

  “Asenath!” Ms. Van Helder was shocked.

  “None of you have any idea about anything!” she screamed, and took off running toward the locker room.

  A moment passed where they waited to see if Asenath would return. She did not. “Come on, Mr. Waite, let’s get you home,” said Ms. Van Helder, helping Ephraim to his feet. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

  “She stole it,” he mewed. “She’s a thief.”

  “Ms. Van Helder…I could take him home.” Veronica felt bad for her uncle, the latest victim of Asenath’s troubling metamorphosis. Perhaps, if she got him alone, she could talk to him. Maybe he needed help from the Church, or from her father, to deal with his wayward daughter.

  “Do you have a car?”

  “No, but it’s not far. Maybe a mile. I mean, he walked here, didn’t he?” Veronica took the man’s hand. “Can you walk home with me? Are you strong enough, Uncle Ephraim?”

  At first, he shook his head no, then something about his expression changed—brightened, maybe.

  “Not far,” he whispered, apparently agreeing with her.

  The sound of a car peeling out of the parking lot made them all look to see Asenath’s dramatic departure. She wasn’t heading in the direction of her house.

  “Better get him home,” said Ms. Van Helder.

  Uncle Ephraim nodded his enthusiasm.

  Veronica had never been a regular visitor at Asenath’s house; not only did her daddy think she should “limit her contact” with her cousin and uncle, the place was just spooky, with its peeling paint and sagging roof. Her father also said the only reason their neighborhood’s homeowner’s association hadn’t served Ephraim a notice was because of his intervention.

  Uncle Ephraim had a key hidden somewhere in the deep pockets of his coat. Veronica got the door open and helped him inside.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she said, taking off his coat. It was very warm in the house, and dark; the blinds were all shut and the golden bars of afternoon sunlight that fell over the carpet through the slats didn’t so much brighten the room as they showed the dust motes swirling in the air.

  He nodded and shuffled toward a chair in the living room that shared his shabby, ill-used appearance. “Please,” he mumbled. “Water.”

  There were no clean cups, so Veronica rinsed out a glass and got him some water with ice. She brought it into the living room and set it beside his elbow on a little tray table.

  “I’ll leave my number,” she said uncertainly, “in case she doesn’t—I mean, I’m sure Asenath will be home soon.”

  “Asenath…”

  “She drove away,” said Veronica. “But she was just angry. She’ll be back.”

  “Stay.” Uncle Ephraim pointed to the couch. “Please.”

  Veronica really, really didn’t want to stay, but didn’t feel like she had much of a choice. “Okay,” she said. “Should I…turn on the TV?”

  “Read to me.” The suggestion of a whine in his unsteady voice stopped Veronica’s protest in her throat.

  “What should I read?”

  “Upstairs,” he said. “Secrets. Under Asenath’s mattress.”

  “I shouldn’t…”

  “I hid it there.”

  Veronica’s skin prickled as she wondered just what in the world Uncle Ephraim had stashed under his daughter’s mattress. What if it was a girlie mag, or something even more disgusting? She decided she might as well do as he said. If it was really bad, she’d give it to Asenath and tell her to get rid of it.

  The stairs were dark and cramped. Veronica took them two at a time, but she hesitated before grabbing the knob of Asenath’s bedroom, unsure what she might find inside.

  Like Asenath, the room was…different. The antique vanity Veronica had always coveted was still there, but Asenath’s beloved Kaboodle full of makeup no longer sat upon it, nor did the shelves hold the toys and dolls she had brought over to Veronica’s when they were younger. The strange thing was, nothing had replaced the missing
items. It felt bare in there, denuded, stripped of its essence as if it had been bleached.

  Veronica shut the door open behind her, unsure what she was feeling. Sadness over the loss of a friend, yes, but there was anger, too. They hadn’t just grown apart naturally, she and her cousin. Asenath had chosen this path, no matter what she said.

  It made her uncomfortable, being in Asenath’s private space, so Veronica screwed up her courage and plunged her arm between his mattress and the bedspring. She rooted around until her hands closed on a slender volume.

  “Hieron Aigypton,” she read slowly, running her fingers over the tooled leather of the cover. “By Ana…Anacharsis.” She’d never heard of it. It looked very old.

  She opened it to the first page, curious to see what it was Uncle Ephraim wanted her to read to him. “Hieron Aigypton, or Egyptian Rites,” she read. “Being an unflinching translation of the dreaded rituals detailed by Anacharsis, who was born a woman, lived as a man, and died neither.” She flipped another page. “Weird.”

  Veronica knew that “rituals” were nothing her daddy would approve of, but just the same, Uncle Ephraim had requested this book… Veronica pursed her lips, but went back downstairs with it.

  “Let us rejoice in the true story of one called Narcissus, whose will was stronger than any alchemy,” she read aloud, after Uncle Ephraim requested she read from the first chapter. After that first line, it became a story—one she vaguely remembered from school, about a beautiful boy who became a flower and the nymph who loved him until she became only an echo.

  “I, Anacharsis, went to that glen, where the first narcissus sprouted. There I found Echo, who told me his final words. These were they…”

  The language was strange to her. As Veronica mumbled her way through the stanzas, her vision began to blur. At first, she thought it was just the warmth of the room—she was sweating through her warmups—but then her eyes focused and saw only blackness.

  She was somewhere that was nowhere, standing at the edge of something that was nothing. Inside the nothing was more nothing, but a denser nothing that writhed—and laughed.

  “Asenath,” she whispered, horrified. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the abyss. Her cousin hadn’t been lying! Did that mean she had read this book? Seen the sights it offered? Horrified, Veronica regretted all the cruel things she had said to Asenath, all the comments she’d made behind her cousin’s back. It was no wonder the girl had turned away from God—they said He was all-powerful, but Veronica couldn’t believe He had ever been here, at the edge of wherever she was. She wept, knowing He was less than she had believed, if He existed at all.

  Asenath said she had turned away, backed away—Veronica needed to find the will to do the same. But try as she might, she could not tear her eyes from the sight. She felt her foot move. It was no longer her foot. She took a step forward, not back. The laughter became louder, and when she went over the edge, it consumed her.

  When Veronica awoke, she felt sore and nauseated. She groaned, dry-mouthed and cold, and realized she lying was on the floor.

  “You’re awake.” A woman spoke to her. Veronica opened her eyes, hoping Asenath had come home. But it wasn’t Asenath.

  It was her. Veronica Waite was standing there in her black-and-green skirt and Miskatonic warmup jacket, staring at her.

  “What?” she mumbled, not in her own voice but Uncle Ephraim’s.

  “You’re weaker than your cousin,” she said, or rather, someone said with her voice, as she helped herself up and into a chair. “Asenath resisted all my arts. I couldn’t take her body. She wouldn’t let me, even though I raised it, fed it, clothed it, for seventeen long years! It was mine. The little thief stole it and after she saw what I was about, she made it nearly impossible for me to try again with someone else. But I managed to hide the book, just in case. Good thing you came along, my little niece, or I might have been trapped in that awful body for the rest of my days.”

  “Uncle?” Veronica was so confused; it was so difficult to do anything, even speak. Her jaws were made of lead. “How…”

  “Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to know,” he said coolly, out of her own lips. “Thank you, Veronica. You always were such a sweetheart.”

  The sound of a key in the lock silenced them. Asenath came through the front door, looking sheepish. The smell of food wafted into the living room.

  “Sorry I took off like—oh, hi Veronica,” said Asenath. She was carrying takeout from somewhere in her arms. “Ms. V said you took Dad home for me…thanks.”

  “No worries,” said Veronica brightly, as Veronica watched in mute horror. “It was the least I could do. I’ve been such a bitch. Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” said Asenath instantly. “Veronica…I’m so sorry I’ve been making trouble for you at school. But you have to understand…”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations,” said Veronica warmly. “I’m just glad we’re friends again.”

  “I brought home dinner. Can you stay?”

  “No,” said Veronica. “Mommy and Daddy want me home, I’m sure. Maybe next week?”

  “Sounds good,” said Asenath. “Hey—this was really cool of you. Dad and I…after his…his stroke, he…”

  “It’s okay.” Veronica leaned in and hugged Asenath tightly. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” said Asenath. “Tomorrow.”

  Veronica tossed her hair and strode out of the house, waving once before walking down the street toward her home. Veronica watched her go, barely able to make her mouth move.

  “Thief,” she muttered, hoping Asenath would understand.

  “Shut up, Dad,” said Asenath, throwing dinner on the table. “You’ve already lost TV privileges with that little display you put on at practice today. Don’t make it worse for yourself.” She crossed her arms. “You know damn well what I’m capable of.”

  “Stolen…” Veronica tried to swallow the spit pooling in her mouth, but just dribbled all over herself.

  “No more cheer practice for you,” said Asenath. “And if you keep that up, I’ll tell our home care worker you’re just too much for a teenage girl to manage—understand? Ugh, stop crying.” She made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “You and I both know you brought this on yourself.”

  Watercolour.

  I brush water in thin lines down my right arm before adding green pigment. Colour spreads down each lane. I twist my arm to surface tension’s extent and then past it, letting the paint escape.

  Think how lovely I could be covered in watercolours. Gradients with geometric patterns, perhaps, or precise stripes with thought-provoking colour-mixing drips. Now and then a performance piece, using my own sweat to blur and degrade my body’s art.

  No I sloppily write in water across the smeared lines as disrelish seethes inside me, shaking my arm—no—and washing the brush—no—and writing no until my arm is clean.

  I am running out of paints to try.

  Red, pink, orange.

  Older Brother wears the duchess’s prize-winning roses, witch-tattooed to bloom and wither on a weekly cycle. When she entertains guests—usually inside but in her garden on warm summer days—he wears naught but a sculpted skirt to wander as a flower vase.

  Every night he covers his roses with thick strokes of rainbow paints—more dollops than a coat—that do not dry but instead smear and mix and splatter as his body slides and rubs against the duchess’s eldest son. Since the betrothal ceremony they are no longer allowed to flirt in public, but no one knows that the Duchess’s son prefers paint to engagement rings if they’re both clean and proper before morning.

  “Will you go with him when he marries?” I ask Older Brother as he checks the garden’s roses for pests.

  Of course. “You could take over my duties,” he signs, winking. The betrothed lady doesn’t care for roses, he later confides. The Duchess won’t allow it, he frets. But, he muses, if someone else could be roses, even unwitched ones, she just might
.

  I imagine being beset with roses, scentless yet still cloying, and I demur. After all, I am mid-puberty; our parents would never allow me tattoos yet. Even though he assures me he jests, I dream of their tattooed thorns slicing my skin.

  Black, white.

  Father’s back is a chessboard, his chest backgammon, repainted every day. In his younger days his legs were strong and he could kneel or stand, bent over, for an entire game but now he lies on a divan while the duchess and her mother play games on him. When the duchess’s children were younger his arms were often covered in tic-tac-toe grids.

  Sorting threads for his next embroidery project, he asks me how I’ll paint myself. I don’t know. I keep trying different things but…

  “You’ll figure it out,” he says with a voice so full of trust and confidence it makes my stomach hurt the nights I lie awake staring so unsure at my unvarnished flesh.

  Fountain pen ink.

  Paint I write on the back of my hand. Paint. Paint. The black ink spiders.

  I don’t paint. I don’t paint. Will I paint? Paint. Paint. Paint. Paint.

  My pen has a thin nib and it takes a long time for the ink to overlap and coalesce into incoherency. It feels better than paint on my skin, but still it does not satisfy, does not reveal to me the pride I see on my parents’ and siblings’ faces.

  Something must, surely. There has to be something that will bring joy to my skin and meaning to my life. I want, so much, to belong within my family not just in appearance or assurance. And yet I have tried so many paints. Will my façade be of happiness rather than pigment?

  Silver, sepia.

  Mother most nights wears glass shard garlands over stripes of reflective paint and dances, surrounded by lanterns and brocade mirrors, for the duchess. But on the eve of the new year she instead uses a mirror to ink faces of departed family, friends, respected enemies and honoured royalty onto her head and body. As the bells of midnight and the words of “Auld Lang Syne” usher in the new year, nestled between braziers she removes jacket and shirt then touches each face and whispers their names, her remembrance unheard but not unnoticed amongst the celebrations.