Gorgesque

by Jon Jacks

  ‘Yes, yes – asleep,’ Katerina replied, yet with a tone implying she preferred to speak in these terms rather than admitting Pavro was dead.

  ‘No one told me Pavro was – asleep!’

  I was shaking, a mix of disbelief, horror, anger: and I wasn’t quite sure in what proportions

  And yes, I couldn’t use the word dead either!

  ‘We didn’t know! How could we?’

  Katerina managed to say this with a face wiped clean of any expression but total innocence, as if it were patently obvious that they’d had no way of knowing.

  ‘We only found out ourselves when we visited the studio!’

  Once again, she says this with eyes glittering with the glaze of joyous truth.

  ‘Señorat Holandros told you Pavro was dead?’

  I’m unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  Her sparkling eyes welled up, tears of elation becoming those of grief, as if she had only tenuously suspended her belief that Pavo was really dead, and that now that assurance was crumbling, the doubts circulating once more.

  ‘Not dead, not dead!’ she insisted. ‘Asleep – as you’ve already said, Andraetra! That’s what Grindfarg – an awful man, a truly awful man, but a genius, Andraetra, a miracle worker! – that’s what he said: that if we catch them in time, we can reawaken our lost ones back to the world of the living! Don’t you see, Andraetra? We can afford this remarkable process. Mother and Father will pay anything to have dear Pavro returned to us! So there’s absolutely no need to worry, Andraetra! Pavro will be with us once more – and soon!’

  Naturally, I wanted to believe everything Katerina was telling me – well no, not the bit about Pavro being dead, obviously! But if he were, if he had died – than yes, I wanted to believe he could be restored back to life!

  But – it just wasn’t possible, was it?

  It went against all the laws of nature.

  Of life.

  Of God!

  Katerina embraced me warmly, lovingly; desperately. It was a hug that tightened the longer she held on to me.

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous,’ she admitted, no doubt having caught the look of disbelief on my face. ‘But on the mainland, there are new discoveries every day, the most remarkable inventions! And this Grindfarg has been able to combine all the very latest revolutions in science with our island’s own religiously administered surgical procedures–’

  She said it as if repeating verbatim Grindfarg’s own explanation of how his procedure had become possible.

  It was true, however, that we were now witnessing the transformation of our understanding and control of the world on an almost weekly basis, while the perfected techniques of our administration of the transference was universally admired.

  If the best of these two worlds were combined – then who knows what could be achieved?

  – ‘and instigate a revival of the flesh of those we falsely thought had already passed on and were beyond our help!’

  *

  Katerina had proof of what seemed to be an outrageously unbelievable claim.

  Portraits of Pavro.

  ‘Like the ones in which the dead have been posed?’ I asked, a shiver of dread passing over me.

  Katerina nodded, but added more excitedly, ‘But later ones too, we’re he’s quite obviously alive once more!’

  Now we were both perfectly silent as we stood in the hallway by the library door, hoping no one would catch us here as Katerina turned the key in the lock as quietly as possible.

  Katerina and Pavro had made the key between them, when their father had insisted he would keep under lock and key books they weren’t entitled to read until they’d undergone the transference. Katerina had briefly taken the key from their father’s study, pressing it hard into a bar of soap Pavro had ‘borrowed’ from the laundry maids. Using this imprint as a guide, Pavro had filed away the extraneous metal of an almost similar key once used to open another interior, yet less important door.

  Katerina’s father had slipped the folio of glass plates into the drawer of a specially cleared section of his desk.

  Grindfarg had warned them all that they shouldn’t show these photographs to anyone. Not only was the procedure a closely guarded secret, known only to those wealthy and willing enough to utilise it, but as soon as it was obvious to everyone that Pavro was alive the glass plate images would immediately become illegal and therefore dangerous.

  The glass plates were heavier than I’d expected them to be. And yes, they clearly showed Pavro, posed in similar situations to those I had witnessed at the studio: seated in a chair, uncharacteristically smoking a long, thin cigarillo; standing by an elaborate fireplace, as if deep in thought and (perhaps) contemplating the meaning of life; looking back at us, pen in hand and hovering over a sheet paper, as if about to set out a letter or, even, begin to draw our portrait (which he had once been more than capable of doing, with admirable skill).

  As if these were not amazing enough, the other glass plates were far more remarkable still.

  He looked back at us, smiling, as if sharing a private joke. Or displaying relief, maybe even joy, at being back once again within our own world.

  Of course, it could have been that this Grindfarg and Señorat Holandros had simply and callously remoulded his face in some way, forcing it into a smile.

  As if to curb any such foolish doubts, the next glass plate in the carefully packed pile showed Pavro standing by the fireplace once more: but this time, as well as openly smiling, and standing well away from any supporting structure, he was mischievously lifting a leg clear of the ground.

  *

  Chapter 5

  It was an almost comical image.

  I chuckled.

  A nervous laugh, one of relief and surprise.

  Katerina giggled along with me.

  I placed a hand on her arm: she still hadn’t explained how Señorat Holandros had informed them of Pavro’s death.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m ever, ever so sorry,’ Katrina began, tearful once more when I asked her this question again, ‘but Parvo insisted we couldn’t let you know the truth: he’s been ill, ill for quite a time, and he’d gone to the mainland seeking treatment, not to study!’

  I should be angry that Katrina and her parents had kept the truth from me: but, I reasoned, if Pavro had assured them that he didn’t want me to know, what else could they do? Obviously, he’d wanted to spare me the anxiety of wondering if the treatment would be successful or not.

  ‘And so Señorat Holandros, and this Grindfarg: where do they come in?’

  ‘Father had heard whispers of this “technique” they’d developed: he insisted that Pavro should meet with them, just in case the treatment failed to work – and so that, of course, any necessary preliminary procedures were followed. It’s fortunate the meeting was arranged, for Pavro die– fell asleep while they were out there.’

  ‘So when do we see him?’ I asked, excited at last, having finally accepted that – as bizarre and impossible as all this sounded – these photographs proved that every implausible thing Katerina had said to me was undoubtedly true.

  ‘The procedure’s not quite complete, Grindfarg told us: but Pavro should be returning to the island on the next available ship!’

  *

  It seemed unbelievable to me: not only was Pavro at last retuning, but he was returning from another realm completely!

  What tales would he have to tell? Would he be able to recall his short sojourn in the netherworld?

  And I now had (or at least knew of the existence of!) portraits that saved his untouched beauty forever.

  Within a few months, along with Katerina, he would undergo the transference.

  He had shown me the drawings made of his intended (his intended, that is, for the procedure of the transference), just as Katerina had shown me the illustrations made of her own intended. Thus I had a good idea of what the new, Gorgesque Pavro would look like.

  For better or worse!r />
  He was also naturally aware of what I would look like after the transference. I had freely shown him the illustrations that had been made of my own intended, a young girl of (of course!) my height and my build, if not (equally obviously!) of my refined beauty.

  Courundia: that was her name.

  Of low intelligence, it seemed, not that it mattered.

  Her life one of low achievements, of endless poverty.

  As a receiver of my beauty, would her situation improve?

  Unlike Señorat Holandros, it appeared that few Grotesgeous made use of their new advantages. Rather, they tended to end up living in the slum district of Relando, a strange half-life of living – I’d been reliably informed, by those who had visited the area on well-protected, guided tours – a perverted mirror image of the districts inhabited by the Gorgesque.

  I glanced into my dressing table mirror, trying to imagine what I would look like when I was half me, half Courundia.

  I shuddered in horror, in loathing of both her and what would be the new me.

  It wasn’t a fair exchange!

  I had only a few months to live with my untouched beauty: and then I would come of age.

  I would be a Gorgesque!

  The benefits it brought, I believed, were completely outweighed by the deliberate destruction of my face. The face I’d lived with for all my life so far – but no: that wasn’t true, was it?

  The face I’d had as a young child wasn’t this one. The face I’d had at ten wasn’t this one. Even my face of just a year ago had been softer, plumper – far more childish than I’d thought at the time.

  So, which face was the real me?

  *

  Chapter 6

  If I look at my reflection within the darkness of the window, my face lit on one side by the waxen light of the oil lamp, the other side left semi-transparent, such that I can see the night-shrouded garden beyond the glass, it affords me some idea of what I may soon look like: the angel and the devil, light and darkness combined.

  It’s not a pleasant sight.

  Within that dark façade, I catch the flickering of flames, as if it is indeed the Devil incarnate, bringing his flames of Hell with him.

  But of course, it’s only the flaring lamps of a carriage, rushing down the long drive leading towards the Delmestra mansion.

  It’s a strange time to be visiting, this late at night, when travellers on the roads can fall prey to the bands of deserters and disaffected rebels who have put aside their differences to take up the relatively easier life of bandits and cutthroats.

  Apart from the flickering of the lamps, the carriage and its team of horses are as dark as the night they plough through. It could be nothing more than a solidified shadow, come to life somehow.

  Odder still, whenever it’s silhouetted against a slightly lighter background of dimly moonlit trees, it appears to me to be a riderless carriage, the seat on top of the cab where the driver normally sits being completely empty. Despite this, when the carriage draws up outside the elaborately carved porch enveloping the main doors, it does so quite regularly and smoothly, such that I could swear the horses must possess a remarkable degree of training and intelligence.

  The carriage door swings open: and what could be its glowing white soul steps out from its black interior.

  *

  Even as I shake my head to clear my confusion, and force myself to focus my gaze to ensure I’m seeing everything correctly within the darkness, I still find it hard to call what I’m seeing a ‘man’.

  Although the height of an exceptionally small man, maybe even a dwarf, the carriage’s occupant looks more like a hideously overgrown baby, the flesh bulbously full and milk white, the hair a light smattering of fluff. His dress is that of a dapper gent, however, light grey evening suit and long, almost gossamer cloak, enveloping him like the sac surrounding a newly born foal.

  He steps away from the carriage, once again leaving the horses completely unattended and without the slightest word of command or instruction to them, as if totally confident in their ability to know that they should wait here until his business was done.

  I jump, startled, as the door to my room harshly clacks with the rapping of an urgent knock.

  Flinging open the door, Katerina rushes in without any further propriety.

  ‘It’s him!’ she declares, almost breathless with either excitement or horror. ‘It’s Grindfarg!’

  *

  Chapter 7

  ‘Payment: he’s come for payment, obviously!’

  Still breathless, Katerina stands alongside me as we stare out into the darkness, where the team of dark horses and the black carriage patiently wait for their master to return.

  Grindfarg had stepped inside the house without knocking, without waiting for the approach of any doorman. We heard none of the enraged queries of any servant or maid that we would normally expect, so his visit could hardly be completely unexpected.

  ‘How much? How much did your parents offer him?’ I ask.

  How much would they pay to ensure Pavro lives?

  How much would I pay?

  Anything.

  Even with my own life!

  ‘I don’t know,’ Katerina admits. ‘I was sent away, to look for you, when Grindfarg brought up “delicate matters”.’

  ‘Could it be trick?’ I whisper fearfully. ‘Couldn’t they have posed poor Pavro to look alive after all? I mean, so they could cheat your parents out of money?’

  ‘Huh, my father’s hardly the easiest to be cheated out of money! Grindfarg and his photographer would eventually pay with their lives if they tried.’

  I had always wondered if, behind Doñas Delmestra’s leisurely, unflustered manner, his apparently kindly nature, there was the rod of steel that enabled him to successfully run his extensive plantations and business empire. Now I had confirmation that he was a far more determined and ruthless man than I had ever imagined.

  ‘Will it be money they’re asked for?’

  I shiver with dread as I ask this; how can you raise a dead man other than by resorting to the dark arts?

  The slaves working on the plantations had almost successfully revolted and overrun our best troops just a few years before I’d been born, the many rumours being that they had used magic from their homelands to give their fighters extra levels of courage, even make them impervious to our musket bullets. Some had said they had even raised their dead, as zombies, using voodoo.

  Katerina was standing so close to me, she sensed my shudder of revulsion.

  ‘A payment of souls, you mean?’ she asks, with no hint of horror in her voice. ‘A soul given up to the Devil when we die?’

  ‘Or, maybe, it’s even something to do with this new innovation: this photography? It captures our likeness – and I’ve heard some say it can only do that by capturing our very essence, perhaps even our souls!’

  Fortunately, now at last Katerina chuckles, if a little grimly.

  ‘Andraetra: these are the fears of children, of the primitive indians,’ she scolds, yet with scant seriousness. ‘Although…if that were true, is that how this Grindfarg works? Capturing souls in Señorat Holandros’s camera, transferring them to the dead – for the right price, of course!’

  Before I can whirl around to catch Katerina’s expression, to check if she’s joking or being perfectly serious, the door to the house opens, throwing out a pyramid of yellow light across the gravel, reaching out towards the dark carriage.

  Grindfarg steps out into the light, struggling with the weight of two heavy caskets he’s carrying, one to each shoulder. He’s almost bowed under this great burden, each casket – if filled, which I suspect they probably are – being more than enough to cause problems for any full-sized, well-built man.

  Behind him steps Doñas and Doñasta Delmestra, an arm wrapped tenderly around the waist of each other, as if for support. They offer neither aid nor encouragement to the struggling Grindfarg but, it appears to me, Grindfarg neither expects nor
requires it.

  The hideous man stands towards the back of the black carriage and, with a simple tip of his upper torso, lets the caskets slip from his shoulders into an already opened luggage compartment, swiftly and deftly sealing them inside as he pulls back into place its thick wooden cover.

  As he completes his action, almost as if it has all somehow set in motion the release of a catch, the door to the carriage’s cab opens once more.

  Another figure steps out of the cab. This time, however, it’s a dark, unsteady character, tall and slim.

  As he steps down to the ground, Doñasta Delmestra rushes forward to warmly, hungrily embrace him, to steady him and prevent him stumbling.

  I catch a glimpse of his delicately angled face in the glow of the lamps.

  It’s Pavro.

  *

  Chapter 8

  Pavro was confined to his room where, we were sternly informed by Doñasta Delmestra, he must rest: yes, she understood our urgency to see more of him, to at least just be with him, to talk to him – but he was still weak, and we could only prolong the length of his recovery be insisting on this.

  It might be indeed, she warned us, that we would endanger his recovery: and so it was far better for all of us if we demonstrated patience.

  Once he was well, well then, naturally, we would be able to spend as much time as we wished with him!

  Of course, we had seen him up close. That night we’d seen him first brought here, neither Katerina nor I could contain ourselves: we had rushed outside, as eager to embrace and welcome him as his mother had been.

  As we’d dashed through the door, however, elatedly crying out Pavro’s name, Doñas Delmestra had immediately whirled around on his heels, stretching out his powerful arms either side to grasp us both around our waists and draw us to a sudden halt, warning us from approaching too close.

  ‘He’s weak, weaker than he looks!’

  At least Pavro had managed to reward our efforts to greet him with a wan smile. It gave me hope that his resurrection had been a genuine one, that he was not some mindless zombie conjured up out of the ground by jungle magic.