It is unfortunate that my counsel advised against mentioning the fairies at the trial. Toward the end of the proceedings, when I could see the trend of things going heavily against me, I ignored this advice and demanded a hearing. Standing before the courtroom and the world — such as it was represented by the newspapers — I told the whole story, in rough, spontaneous outline. There was an impressive silence in the courtroom as I did so. I interpreted it as the bated breath of awe. Later, I was told that the courtroom was shocked by the desperate audacity of what they thought was a last-minute attempt to portray myself as insane. The move also brought chaos to my counselors, as my representatives climbed over each other like toads in a shoebox in their attempts to dissociate themselves from my defense.
Not that I had ever had a chance of escaping the charges. After poor, simple Dennis, the church handyman, spoke as a witness for the state, the rest of the trial was a mere formality. Sitting there in his — or somebody’s — best clothes, he told in crude, innocent terms what he saw that day in the church cellar; how he came upon Linda Drain and myself “naked and uh — slippery” in the dark — thus providing a surprisingly many-faceted motive for my supposed commission of the crime of murder against Rev. Drain. It was a beautiful move for the prosecution. Linda Drain and I were not simple adulterers, taking a room at a strange hotel. We were jaded voluptuaries, far beyond the pleasures of mere coupling; to achieve satisfaction in lust, we had to oil our bodies and commit our naked outrages beneath the very altar of the town church. It was a scene Aleister Crowley might have relished; and which the London press certainly did.
So were my bona fides as a pervert firmly established. And so it became possible to believe that I was capable of anything — including a midnight tryst with Linda’s husband in a secluded garden.
Oh, the world knows me and my story well by now: How I, a financially dissolute foreigner, met Mrs. Drain on the way to Burkinwell, where we were attacked by two low-life criminals, probably former confederates of mine getting revenge for a crooked deal gone bad. Why was I going to Burkinwell? Well, the disgraced policeman Walsmear and I had been known to have met in London, and we were concocting a scheme to get hold of Templeton’s property and sell it to the London consortium which was eager to get hold of it for reasons of their own — mainly the seam of coal that was believed to run beneath it. Our plan was to confound and frighten the high-strung Templeton with a preposterous story that his garden was somehow enchanted. But our little scheme floundered on my omnivorous appetite for sexual love. Of Rev. Drain and his wife, I had been having relations with both. It was one of the most appalling examples of vice ever encountered in that part of England. But why kill Rev. Drain? Why not? I had already demonstrated that I was capable of any monstrosity. But a little mysterious midnight murder in the “enchanted” garden would possibly be the last straw for Templeton, and encourage him to sell out more quickly to us. Or perhaps Drain had finally refused my proposals, hoping to swear off sodomy, and I killed him in a rage.
It is not necessary to prove motive.
Of my confederate Walsmear, he had disappeared. To America, it is believed. With Esmirelda, the loose-moraled girl who worked at the inn. The girl’s absence had been a great loss to her father, Cole, proprietor of the Starry Night.
I could not convince the court that any of this was untrue. And the final proof of my monstrosity was that I wanted to call the two little Templeton girls into court to support my outlandish story of traveling to Burkinwell to photograph fairies in their garden.
Of course, there were some witnesses who could have saved me. One was Brian Templeton. Oh yes, he informed the court, I was a perfectly respectable and docile guest while invalid in his home; but as I grew more healthy, and was discharged from his home, I became more strangely and violently attached to the girls and the garden, until such time as he had to report me to the authorities (as the policeman who’d bicycled by was called upon to affirm). Yes, I’d babbled some nonsense about fairies, Templeton attested. And as for the girls, they would naturally be drawn to that sort of talk and made to believe all sorts of things.
“There are, however,” he said, “no such things as fairies. No fairies in my garden. No fairies anywhere.”
As far as believers in fairies were concerned, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle found himself on a tour of the Far East soon after the crime — and therefore was unavailable to appear in court. While he was in Australia, his fairy photographs were published to a gratifying burst of incredulity from the press; but, surprisingly, the absurd forgeries found many believers among the public, leading the newspapers to courteously retreat from mockery to a position of charmed skepticism.
I have lived now through my last sunset. That was several hours ago. It glowed through the bars of my high window, a pink fan across the ceiling.
Far to the west, I imagine, Michael Walsmear and his bride Esmirelda are growing roseate in this same sunset. I wish them happiness in my vast homeland. In my fancy, I see them sitting on a bench among the lengthening shadows of Boston Common, the colorful leaves of the New England autumn underfoot, Esmirelda growing big with child — a child I dare to dream carries part of myself back to the land of my birth. Walsmear, I suspect, will make a good Boston cop. And for Gypsy thrills, I’d suggest he haunt the rooming houses and alleyways behind the theaters of the McLarty district. He may learn some new magic tricks there. And may he never recall the night he sent two ruffians to rifle his friend’s home; two monsters to perform a task no man would accept. Two monsters, whom, as far as the trial was concerned, may not have existed at all.
Giving Paolo and Shorty more solidity than the fairies I claimed were the doctor who treated Mrs. Frosse, the older woman who had been attacked with us in the compartment on the train, as well as the conductor. Mrs. Frosse herself was besmirched by a campaign in the press, which dug up some information about her brother, who’d apparently once forged some signatures and got himself sacked by the Admiralty. Detective Cubb came forward and testified that Linda Drain, Mrs. Frosse, and myself did indeed appear before him claiming to have been attacked by two men on the train; although beyond that fact none of us could agree, he said, our descriptions of the attackers being contradictory, and when they were not contradictory, vague.
As to what happened to me that night at the Gypsy camp — well, everybody knows what goes on in the Gypsy camp.
It was a trial that might have occurred in Alice’s Wonderland. And in the topsy-turvyland witness box, only Linda Drain confessed to anything.
I will never forget, as long as I live (and beyond, I hope), the sight of her in the courtroom, the shaft of light falling upon her chair, as she sat so bravely erect, in her dark suit and dark, round hat with two stiff wings coming down along either side of her cheeks, hiding the upper part of her face in a horseshoe of shadow, within which her eyes caught the light: two fierce and determined little sparks, glittering with truth.
Before the world, she told how, indeed, there had been a young man in London, whom she had been going to see when I stepped into her life. And that the idea of a darkroom under the altar had been entirely her own, as had been the instigation of what had occurred there before the eyes of the startled handyman.
The truth did not save me. Especially when she truthfully told that I had never mentioned to her anything about fairies, or my desire to photograph them.
Good-bye, dear Linda. I am crushed by what I have caused you. But now you know all, as I should have told you from the beginning. I should have enlisted both you and your husband as my partners in a merry quest for the fairies; a search that may not have produced fays, but which may have brought us a friendship we could still be enjoying. Now, however, my shame forces me to avert my eyes, to avoid speech, to avoid thinking of you and what your life might become after this. I cannot see you. I could not see you this afternoon, when my jailers told me I had a visitor — yourself — waiting outside to come
in.
No, no, no, it was impossible to let you see me here in this dark cell, to let you take away the image of me sitting slope-shouldered on an iron bedstead. I told them to send you away, without a word, without a sign, without a notion — which might comfort me — that we will ever meet again even in that next world. (I vow, by the way, to keep my silence there. I will not communicate with anyone by Ouija board, table rapping, or mediumistic trance.)
With the greatest agony — for you alone were one who might understand and comfort me — I banished you from my final day, and now the pain and horror of having severed my last human contact has struck me full force.
You left. You left the prison, left London, and will leave this England that knows your secrets, I hope. Before you left, you gave the jailer this envelope for me. This envelope I have not yet opened. I finger it now, wondering at the note inside. Why read it? Why not tear it up now and cast it down into the hole in the corner? What can you possibly say to me that will not make my going harder — or easier, and yet more difficult in the way that I desire not comfort. Yes. I will destroy this envelope. But I won’t tear it up. For then I might catch a glimpse of your handwriting. I will crumple it up and bowl it down the hole. I feel the paper now beneath my fingers. I tap the point of my index finger against the hard corner of the envelope. I will cast it away. Now. Now. Cast it away. Now.
No. I will save the blank envelope. Of what comfort to me is a blank envelope? It is no comfort, but a reminder. That I will save. I will keep it on my person, and be hung with it in my pocket tomorrow. I will open the envelope, throw the note unread into the hole, and save the envelope. I could not read the note anyway. It is too dark in here. I would have to squint, and put my eyes very close to the paper. I cannot accidentally read it. So I will take the note out now. I tear open the envelope. I reach inside.
There is no note inside the envelope. There is something else. I pull it out, and hold it up toward the high window.
It is a tiny wildflower. The very flower I had told Linda to search for. The very flower which Anna and Clara . . . Linda remembered. And during the trial, she heard. She heard me say that the flower enabled one to see the fairies. She was listening even as the others turned their heads away in embarrassment at the outrageousness of my claims — my attempts, they thought, to feign insanity.
But of what use is it to me now? How much better to return it to Linda, to have her eat it, to see what I saw, to enjoy the world of fairies, the unspeakable delight of their presence and touch. Better still, she could bring it to scientists, an eminent scientist, and have him eat it and see the fairies for himself. Thus would begin the new age of fairy study, fairy natural history, fairy religion and humanities. I must get this back to her somehow. Put it in an envelope. Write her a note. I need paper. Paper and an envelope. I pound on the door to my cell. Who is on duty now? Walter, I think.
“Walter, Walter,” I call. “Come here. I need something.”
Walter’s brisk steps slap down the stone corridor. The sliver opens in the door, and I see Walter’s sympathetic, but dutiful, gray eyes.
“What is it?” he asks.
Something suddenly occurs to me. “Nothing,” I say.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Positive,” I say.
“Got the jitters, then?” he asks.
“No, nothing like that.”
“You can see the minister if you like. He’s sleeping in the warden’s house. At your call.”
“No. I don’t want to see him.”
“It might help.”
“No, no, no,” I trail off, and wander back to my cot.
Walter takes a last look and slides the slot closed.
What has occurred to me is this: If Linda found one of these flowers, she must have found more. From what I saw of Templeton’s garden, they grow in clusters. That means Linda may have picked some for herself — for the scientific authorities — but mostly for herself, I hope. Even now, she might be standing in a garden somewhere, enjoying the fairy touch, their merry race to nowhere, the sight of their dance and whirling, midair coupling.
Linda! Have you seen them? Have you seen the fairies? The thought thrills me, it excites me. I imagine her recalling what I said in court, and very hesitatingly taking the flower between her thumb and index finger — as I am doing now. I imagine her closing her eyes, and gently placing it on her tongue — as I am also doing now. And, just like this, chewing and swallowing the slightly bitter blossom. So tomorrow I shall die with the rough parts of this flower still in my stomach.
I lie down on my cot and stare up at the ceiling, where the dim aureole of starlight shines through the high, barred window. Thank you, Linda. My cell remains dark. There are no fairies in prison. But if I were somewhere else —
Wait. What is this? Up in the window. A hazy light. It grows more solid. It is like the end of a tapering ribbon, curling through the bars of the window. It is a tendril of the fairy mist — reaching, just barely, into my cell.
Where does it come from? The garden! The prisoners’ garden in the courtyard down below! My heart beats faster. There are no fairies, just the fairy mist; but if I could look out of the cell window, perhaps I could see them.
The cell window, however, is so high. So far away. At least fifteen feet up. If only I could climb up there. I go to the corner of my cell. The walls are stone, closely set, almost smooth. I run my hands over the walls. There are cracks here, but they are so small. Perhaps if I can fit my fingers in there. No. I cannot. But my nails. My fingernails. There. Ouch. Can I raise myself up on them? Yes. The pain is — ah, but I can do it. But not from the floor. From the bed. I’ll get a running jump from the bed, hit the wall, cling to one of the interstices with my fingernails. Here we go now. Jump.
I scrabble for only a moment before finding purchase. My nails dig into the cracks. They begin to separate from the flesh beneath them. Quickly, I pull myself up to the next interstice. Beneath me, my bare feet hold to the wall with friction, barely supporting my weight, sliding slowly downward as the stone rips the skin. I pull myself up. The fingernails separate further. I must move quickly before they pull off. The feet are a bloody mess now. But the raw flesh provides greater purchase. Up now, boy. What is pain to you who are about to see the fairies for the last time? I hoist myself again. How am I holding on? How am I wedged here? If I breathe I shall fall. If only I can grab one of the bars on the window. So close, so tantalizingly close. The fairy mist shines above me. I will go for it. I have the edge of the window. My fingers are slipping. Hold on, Charles, hold on. By the fingertips of one hand. Swing yourself by those fingertips. That’s it. Now, bring the other hand up. There you are. You are clinging to the edge of the window. Don’t look down. Reach up. Grab a bar. There. You’ve got it. Pull yourself up. Grab another bar with the other hand. Up, up, up. Pull your head up and look out there.
Stars. The sky is full of stars. There is a guard tower. And a wall. That’s where the stars stop. The fairy mist cascades down from where I hold myself with the most painful effort. I look down toward the prison garden. I see figures. Tiny figures. And beyond them, the mist grows red . . . there is something there. . . .
Good God. The gallows. Something red there, a purplish red; I sense conflict, great conflict there; limbs clambering over limbs; something horrid, red, purple, and wet. I will not look, there. I will not look. I will look down at the fairies. Yes. I reach one hand through the bars. Do they see me? Will they trip upward these thirty feet into the air? I see tiny faces looking my way. They are beginning to move, to clamber, to dance their funny slow-motion climb up the fairy mist to where I am reaching out to them, the muscles in the arm that holds me up beginning to snap and tear from the strain, even as my chest seems to rip in half over my ribs, and warm saliva gushes from my mouth. No, not saliva. Blood.
But I see the lead fairy. See her face, the curious happy
eyes as she rises toward my fingers. The fairy mist seems to push forward ahead of them. It pours through the bars; down over my shoulders. It must be filling the cell. I turn my trembling palm upward. The fairy laughingly places a toe there. A thrill passes up my arm. I look into her eyes, bright, tiny, delighted. I cannot hold on any longer.
I am falling. For a moment, I savor the weightlessness. Then my back strikes the edge of the bed. I feel a sharp snap, such as I have never felt before. Something has been severed, something profound.
The fairy mist has seeped into every corner of the cell, curling in vegetable profusion. The fairies are dancing down upon me in troupes, falling over me like a rain of petals. Their hair, their feet, their tiny faces. They clamber over me. I long to embrace them, but I cannot move. They are on my chest, my arms, my face . . .
I am ravished.
O.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 1992 by Steve Szilagyi
978-1-4976-3269-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Photographing Fairies: A Novel Page 27
