The Fallen One smiled down at the man and said, "Mr. Booth, have you ever considered politics?”
John Wilkes looked up and gave a courtly nod. "The South shall rise again."
About the Author
Heather Kenealy is the Winner of Cinescape's Short Story contest, and of the Stan Lee Presents The Seekers contest held by MTV Geek and POW! Entertainment. She is an avid comic book reader and writer, and besides short stories has written several screenplays and other entertainment based media.
http://heatherek13.tumblr.com/
Other Books by Heather:
We'll Be Able to Fly
Influence
The Coming of Never
Little Sister's Guardian: Sorrow's Story
The Portrait of Alatiel Salazar
a novella by
Steven Katriel
CHAPTER I: THE DECORATIVE POOR
Camden Town, 1880
THIS IS MY VOICE. You cannot hear me, but I hope you will read my thoughts . . . .
The only sign of life he found in the broken and windswept house was one of death, the outline of a body, borne on a cradle of blood-stained paper. The intruder took another page from the dishevelled bed and continued to read Helena Graham’s journal:
I will endeavour to record everything—every word, each thought and action; such is the hateful gift of insight Alatiel has forced upon me. To my regret, I am certain she will take her turn to relate our story, smiling to herself all the while, secure in her wretched vanity and the knowledge that the chances of this journal being found are slim. Besides, she may just cast these pages into the fire and all my words will have been in vain. That would amuse her, I imagine . . . if indeed she is capable of such a human trait’.
She will use my mind, my memories, to set down this tale. I hope against hope that someone discovers my journal and, having read it, fashions a way to destroy Alatiel, even if this action means the loss of what was once my life.
Spring
“I’VE FOUND HER!” Julian Paradine said. Those were his very words. But, truth be told, Alatiel found him, marked him out; well, she left her mark on poor Julian . . . on all of us, in fact.
We sat outside a small café on Thurzon Street, the men daydreaming, no doubt, that they were kindred souls of the Parisian Bohemians we had all read about; I, the token female in this circle of art lovers, was admitted only by virtue of my writing pastime and, of course, because of my brother. Although our parents had passed on, keeping company with these harmless ‘radicals’ would have been unthinkable were it not for my beloved Matthew.
Julian alone had actually been to Paris, but then, he was the only one amongst us whose career was in the ascendant; the Academy were beginning to notice his crowd-pleasing paintings. We were happy to follow his lead in so many things . . . .
He pulled away from our table, took the girl roughly by the arm and pushed her forward. She appeared to glide, or float, towards us, and even when the cause of her strange and somewhat comical motion came into view, the eerie effect remained. The girl gave the impression of perfect control—of herself and of events—although seemingly at the whim of her master. She did not stir, did not blush, as one might expect.
With his usual carefree, infectious enthusiasm—the joie de vivre which so endeared him to us—Julian presented his new plaything for closer inspection. Or perhaps that should be ‘delectation’; Matthew’s mouth fell open, and he gazed in wonderment. The poet Callum Flynn, however, flinched as though he’d been struck. He raised himself, made no attempt at excuses and simply murmured, “I must go,”; he’d always impressed me as a strange man, all the more now. My fiancé, Gabriel Holland, also stood up suddenly and left us. His seat fell to the ground, and he backed away from the table. Finally he excused himself by claiming that he was worried about Flynn. At first, we were perplexed and concerned, but once the two friends had departed, we gave free rein to our merriment. To my shame, I was too curious about Julian’s latest escapade to follow Gabriel. As it was, the remaining men resumed their scrutiny of the girl in that concentrated, trepidatious and thoroughly silly way which is the hallmark of their sex. I, of course, could stare freely at her, with no such pretence or man-made restriction.
Certainly, she was beautiful, but in a strangely bland, indistinct way—not unlike an elder sister of Mr Carroll’s ‘Alice’, I thought. Her complexion was simply too pale, as though iced water slithered through her thin veins, and her ash blonde hair had none of the lustre of true health.
Julian held the girl by her shoulders and addressed us again:
“Well actually, Cristian Salazar found her, or rather, he bought her. Made a gift of her to me. She is perfect, isn’t she?” he looked at each of us in turn, soliciting agreement. “Say hello to Alatiel.”
They greeted her respectfully enough, I suppose, though Daniele Navarro made a show of slowly raising his hat, a display of ironic homage unworthy of him, I thought. Perhaps I was mistaken, and this was the closest thing to chivalry he could muster . . . . Matthew stuttered a few indecipherable words, such was his amusing shyness. The girl remained silent and still. Julian Paradine stood apart from her now.
“Ah, my apologies, gentlemen—and Helena, of course—I should have mentioned that Alatiel is a mute . . . or, at least, she claims she is.”
I felt rather ashamed as the others laughed at the girl’s expense.
“Alatiel . . . that seems familiar to me, as if it were from a book I read many years ago.”
“She has no name, Daniele,” Julian said, “so I chose one for her. I have invented her, you might say.”
“I thought you had broken with Salazar, Julian? Are you so easily bought?” Navarro teased.
“Now, now, my friend, you know I never compromise in matters of art. As you’re no doubt aware, I paint those dreary society stalwarts and their charming cherubs solely because of the challenge to my technique; not for the few pennies their parents bestow upon me . . . . ” At that precise moment, Julian pretended to consult his gold pocket watch and turned it around until the sun’s rays glanced off its ornate cover. We laughed at his playful self-mockery. Julian’s smile faded a little as he glanced at Alatiel’s blank expression.
“Anyhow, the scoundrel made me a peace offering. Said he bought her for a sovereign, from some old crone in the East End; a lie, no doubt.”
I cleared my throat, and every head turned my way. “But surely no mother would ever sell her child?”
Julian became serious, for once, his voice almost plaintive.
“My dear Helena, even a mother’s love has its price . . . especially in the places Salazar haunts.”
The mood had darkened, and Julian attempted to lift the gloom once more by making a show of choosing which of his friends would be the first to make use of Alatiel. You see, this was how they worked—I had witnessed it a few times before. One of the circle would find a ‘stunner’ amongst the city’s waifs and strays, and they’d pass her along between them, like a mysterious parcel that excited children long to unwrap at birthday parties. Soon enough, they would tire of the game, and this fascination with the more decorative poor would pass. Granted, they only used the young women as subject or inspiration for painting and poetry—at least that is what I, in my innocence, believed—but afterwards the unfortunates were dismissed with a few coins, and they would return to their miserable, poverty-stricken lives. I had never been struck by this carefree heartlessness until that day.
Perhaps my sentimental, self-indulgent empathy was wasted on this particular ingénue; as I tried to look upon Alatiel’s countenance again, sunlight drained the little colour her skin possessed and made her appear featureless, somehow. But my obvious unease did not concern her, and instead she turned to face her captive audience. In that instant, I imagined I saw her, not as she really was, but as she appeared to them: Alatiel was the mirror in which they saw themselves. She would be whatever her admirers wanted her to be.
Julian broke my reverie by ra
ising his voice. He spoke winningly enough, but his words were wasted on the others. Finally, with good-humoured mock protests hanging in the air, he allowed Daniele Navarro to lead her away. Alatiel looked back—just once—and perhaps she saw us as we really were: Julian, troubled or guilt-ridden; Matthew, looking for all the world as if he were in love; and I, betrayed by my own face, the shameless fascination I displayed for her imperious majesty.
CHAPTER II: THE KINDRED SOULS
IN THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, we saw little of Daniele. On the rare occasions he attended our meetings, the light of love shone in his eyes. His beloved was left behind, embowered in his apartment, perhaps because he feared someone would snatch her away from him. I wonder now if she was ever truly there, or indeed, anywhere. I wonder if she existed at all, beyond the scrutiny of spectators. As for Daniele, he was charming, he was garrulous.
Then, he was gone.
In contrast to Daniele, Julian Paradine sought our company more and more and made good on a long-held promise to provide me with lessons in art. He began with the best of intentions, I am certain, but before long, my instructions took place at home rather than Julian’s studio.
In time, the afternoons became an exercise in casual conversation between my brother and the maestro; the initial object of my studies—a brightly-coloured flower attached to my easel—wilted in sympathy with my enthusiasm.
Once in a while, Julian would stroll across, gaze at the canvas and mumble something like, “Oh dear . . . oh well, never mind,” and resume chattering about neckties, Bouguereau or Lady Ambridge’s affaires. Eventually, after a disastrous eye-to-eye confrontation with a stern-looking antique bust, I laid down my pencils and brushes for the last time.
“A tragic loss to the arts, no doubt,” Matthew said; the three of us broke into peals of laughter.
So we took to simply walking for pleasure, beyond the town, rather than genuinely seeking suitable locations for watercolour composition’. We talked light-heartedly—anything but serious—although neither of my companions wished to discuss Daniele’s latest activities. At best, the two would disavow all knowledge; once, Julian left my brother and I in embarrassed silence as he stated he had ‘no desire to talk about that wretched creature.’ This mannerless outburst was so unworthy of my friend that I wondered what on earth Alatiel had done to deserve such a scornful epithet. Besides, how could Julian know what she was really like, at heart? Daniele and his model had shut themselves away from the world . . . .
In time, however, Julian’s natural kindness returned. At the beginning of one of our excursions, he persuaded us to turn back into town and call upon his family. He had not visited his mother ‘for centuries,’ as he put it, though Matthew and I knew this translated to ‘weeks.’ In truth, we knew him as a devoted son and a constant source of affection and amusement to his sister. But, ever since the tragedy that befell young Elizabeth, Julian had kept his distance from home and family. Once so contented and spirited, the girl now remained prone in her wheelchair, sullen, silent and listless.
After the usual fuss of greetings between mother, maids and our friend, we approached the corner in which the invalid sat. At once, I took a dislike to the dark and narrow wooden chair, thinking it similar to an instrument of torture; it appeared to entrap and stifle Julian’s sister rather than ease or support her.
“And how is my darling girl?” Her upper body stirred somewhat, but, to my sorrow, she looked away from her brother’s smiling face. Unmoved and disinterested, she absently drummed her fingers without rhythm or order upon a padded armrest. Mrs Paradine walked over and laid a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“She is unaltered. Elizabeth takes comfort in the lives of the saints.” Julian’s mother gestured to the unopened book lying forlornly across the girl’s still limbs.
An awkward silence descended. Much remained unspoken between the three of them, I thought, or perhaps some truths could only be uttered privately. Of course, I had the public story from friends, some months ago: from her earliest years, Elizabeth dreamt of becoming a ballerina, and in time her loving brother paid for dancing lessons. She made little progress, it seems, and soon careless, carefree Julian lost himself in his usual distractions from responsibility. One day, he neglected to arrive on time to accompany Elizabeth to her studio, and she wandered the street outside her home. She did not see who pushed her before the oncoming hansom, but, in her embittered mind, poor Julian was to blame in some way. From that black day onwards, Elizabeth refused to speak to him.
I longed to depart from this haunted place. Thankfully, Matthew came to my aid. “We must leave you, I’m afraid, Mrs Paradine. Helena and I—”
“Ah, of course. How thoughtless of me!” Julian exclaimed, “Mother, I promised to make a start on Helena’s portrait—last week, in fact!—so you really must excuse us.”
His lie accepted without question, he kissed her unproffered cheek and moved to lay a hand upon Elizabeth’s own. Her fingers remained quite still, and a sad smile of resignation faded slowly from Julian’s face. I felt such pity for him at this moment, and for his unhappy, confused sister. Julian recovered himself swiftly though, and shepherded us from the room as he shouted his cheery farewells. He lingered over shutting the door but finally closed it firmly, in much the same manner as a careless child locks their playthings away in a box once novelty or amusement has passed on.
Julian left us shortly after, without a word about our uncomfortable visit to his family home. To my dismay, Matthew teased me about calling upon Callum Flynn, knowing all the while I would prefer even the Paradine’s company to the ramblings of the supposed poet. “I can’t believe you really long for his company,” I said, “I most certainly don’t.”
“Oh, don’t be so po-faced. You can always laugh at him behind your hand,” Matthew said.
“It wasn’t you he proposed to that awful time . . . .”
Matthew merely sniggered at my exasperation. “He was drunk!”
“Is he ever anything else? Small wonder he had to be helped off bended-knee. I wish I could pour him into a bottle and throw—”
Flynn appeared on the street opposite us, and I fell silent. Oblivious to our presence—or perhaps, ignoring it—he let himself into his shabby lodging house. Matthew beamed and took my arm. “The man himself! Come on, we both need cheering-up.”
In a moment, he was knocking on what passed for a front door.
Flynn showed us in, without apologising for the dishevelled condition of his room; or perhaps he was tired of the pointless business of excusing the inexcusable. He sat on his bed and left us to find seats elsewhere. I preferred to stand, hoping this would facilitate a very brief visit. My brother, though, was just warming up.
“Will you recite for us today, Callum?”
“I shall not.”
Matthew looked at me, as if I of all people might be tempted to cajole Flynn into reading. Inwardly, I dreaded—for both my own and Mr Flynn’s sakes—the unveiling of an ‘Ode to Helena’ or somesuch painful poem. Flynn, though, conceded that Matthew could ‘read for himself’ and sank ever further into his unsprung mattress. Now the poet and I would be at the mercy of my brother’s subtle but merciless mimicry. But instead, Matthew read in thoughtful silence.
“This is actually very good,” he said with an air of surprise which should have embarrassed the three of us. “I don’t like it all . . . but I suppose that’s just the reaction you wanted, yes?” Flynn merely raised his left hand and let it fall, as if the praise meant nothing to him.
By now, I was curious enough to walk to where Matthew sat and read over his shoulder. The poem—which entirely lacked the conventional niceties of rhyme—began slowly, quietly and . . . I gradually felt as though the words crawled along my skin. Yes, there could be no mistake: however laughable Flynn’s previous work seemed to my brother and I, on this occasion, he had drawn inspiration from some unfathomable source of knowledge or experience. Unfortunately for me, Flynn’s newfound excellence disturbe
d my thoughts, though I could not help but read on.
His poem told of a single strand of darkness which made its way by night through our town, towards pleasant homes and the sleeping, complacent people within. It crept along the wall surrounding the church, seeping through gaps in the brickwork, across unseeing eyes of stone angels standing sentry above silent graves. Darkness, unburdened by the blindness affecting everyone and everything in its path, stole into the dreams of the innocent.
Flynn’s words began to blur, or perhaps I no longer wished to read the terminal verse. I made a weak excuse about feeling unwell, and we took our leave of the poet and his madness before it contaminated my mind any further.
That night, I fell victim to a dream which owed its inspiration to Callum Flynn’s own; or so I later believed. I dreamt that I woke from sleep, within my moonlit bedroom, and became aware of a curious sound, a shrill sound with a consistent rhythm. Hands moved upon leather—or perhaps, cloth. Only when I noticed my own hands fearfully clutching a bed sheet did I realise that the sound resembled someone grasping and releasing . . . something . . . time and again. I looked across to the darkest corner of my room, and there sat Elizabeth Paradine, gripping the armrests of her invalid chair.
She had been watching me, in envy and hatred, as my body freely turned in sleep. In her fevered imagination, it may be that she conjured innocent scenes of dancing, or unrestrained passion between myself and so many lovers; the bitter knowledge that I could experience these things in my life as much as in dreams—whereas hers was a life restrained—twisted everything good within her. And so she longed to deny me my life. At the moment the twisted shadow of Elizabeth’s fingers loomed over my thin cotton sheet, I woke, and found myself alone within darkness. I knew poor Elizabeth to be no monster or evil spirit—rather, I haunted and tortured myself, as always.
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