Coleridge

by Tom Deady

  Dalia stood slowly. Without looking at Slade, she strode to the wood basket and selected two large logs. She turned back to Slade, then tossed both logs in the fire. A dazzling display of sparks erupted and a wall of heat pushed against her. She kicked aside the fire screen and glared at Slade.

  “Now, I ask you a question, you answer. If you refuse, or if you give me some nonsensical, trite response, I will push your chair one foot closer to the fire. Do you understand me, Slade?”

  His mouth dropped open slightly, but he recovered quickly. His face hardened, lips cutting a tight slash across his face.

  Dalia nodded. “Very well, shall we begin? Why did you come here?”

  Slade stared at the fire, shaking his head. His face was flushed with anger, sweat now dripping from his head.

  “Have it your way,” Dalia muttered, and walked around the rocking chair. She placed her hands on the frame and one foot on the crossbar between the rockers. Bracing herself, she gave the chair a mighty shove. It slid forward two or three feet as Slade uttered a weak cry.

  “You’ve lost your mind, woman—”

  Dalia cut him off, her voice strong and steady. “Why did you come here, Slade?”

  Slade screamed in frustration but didn’t answer. She shoved the chair again with a grunt, moving it two feet closer to the fire. From her position behind him, she could feel the heat. It would be worse for him being both lower and closer to the flames.

  Dalia swiped a rivulet of sweat from her forehead. “Why did you come here, Slade?” This time it was barely a whisper, almost inaudible above the roaring fire, but it held its share of menace.

  Slade redoubled his efforts to free himself. The chair rocked madly in Dalia’s grasp. Blood flew from the cuts on his wrists in arcs, tinted strangely by the flames. His breath came in heaving gasps, interrupted only by his moans and cries of anger and helplessness.

  Dalia kicked the chair forward, a few inches at a time. The heat had become a physical force. She was sweating freely now, partially from the exertion of pushing the chair but mostly from the searing heat thrown from the fire. The front of the rockers were less than two feet from the stone apron. How easily the chair will slide on the stone, she thought.

  “Stop!” Slade cried.

  Dalia paused, her body tense, ready to give the chair another push. Wanting to give the chair another push.

  “I’ll tell you, please, just pull me back a bit.”

  Dalia smiled wickedly. She savored the fear in his voice, the childish pleading. “Start talking, then I pull back.” Dalia’s voice was ice despite the scorching heat.

  Slade talked.

  FOURTEEN: Slade’s Story

  “If you’d done your goddamned research—”

  Dalia shoved the chair another inch.

  “All right. Fuck.” He was breathing hard again. “I already told you the house was built by Levi Coleridge, but it’s the why that’s important. Coleridge fancied himself as some sort of shaman after spending almost two decades wandering the American southwest. He called it his vision quest. Very little is known about these travels and exactly what happened to him. The only documentation was what was written in his journal.” Slade cut his gaze toward Dalia, who had moved back to the couch.

  Dalia returned his stare. “The very journal which you just read. And?”

  Sweat dripped down Slade’s reddened face. If he was trying to look foreboding, he was failing. He took a deep breath and shook his head, sending beads of sweat in every direction, glistening in the firelight before disappearing to the carpeted floor. “He spent those years going from one Native American tribe to another. The Chiricahua, Cherokee, Navajo, Apache. From what I could gather, he cobbled together bits and pieces of their myths and legends and created a belief system. The closest thing to a legitimate Indian belief would be the Nunnehi.”

  Slade’s voice had devolved into a raspy croak. Dalia interrupted him. “Let me get you that glass of water.” She returned to the back of the rocker and hauled him back several feet, out of the worst of the fire’s heat. She went to the kitchen, filled two tall glasses with ice water, and returned to the living room. She placed one glass on the coffee table in front of the couch and held the other while Slade sipped greedily. When he finished, she placed his glass down and took her place on the couch, motioning for him to continue.

  “Thank you, Miss Cromwell. As I was saying, his writing came very close to the Cherokee legend of the Nunnehi.”

  “Wait,” Dalia interrupted, “how do you know about Cherokee myths?”

  Slade’s eyes took on a faraway look. “I’ve been searching for this house for a long, long time. I knew of Coleridge, not by name but by reputation. Rumors and hearsay for the most part, but it was intriguing. When I discovered he’d spent a great deal of time in the Southwest, I began doing my own research.” His wistful look changed, looking somehow pained. “Retracing his steps was no easy task. Coleridge got his information the old-fashioned way; talking to people. Most of the tribes back then kept the old ways alive. They hadn’t been assimilated, Americanized. At any rate, what I just read in his own handwriting was very close to the Nunnehi legends.” He gave her a pointed look. “The Immortals.”

  Dalia waited, pieces slowly falling into place. Slade was lost in his thoughts, or perhaps his memories. Outside, the wind gusted, drawing a moan from the old house. The fire had died down while Slade was speaking, and the backdraft from the wind sent a swirl of smoke into the room. Dalia remembered again the faces she’d seen while waiting for Slade. She searched the smoke for more of the same, but it dissipated quickly, revealing nothing. She stood and placed more logs on the fire, then returned once again to the couch. “Mr. Slade, did you come here looking for the secret to eternal life?” Her voice held an undeniable tint of amusement, but there was something else. Something she didn’t expect to hear. Curiosity. And maybe a touch of fear.

  Slade regarded her, trying to distill what he heard in the question. “Is it so impossible to imagine, Miss Cromwell? In many ways, isn’t it what traditional religions promise? Isn’t Heaven considered eternal life?”

  Dalia pondered his words. In a way, he was right. But what he was proposing sounded different somehow, more sinister. Was she racist for thinking that way because it was a Native American belief? That was just plain silly. While she didn’t believe in any organized religion, she did lean toward the wisdom of nature-based systems like animism and Wicca. She shook her head. Her rambling thoughts were something she could deliberate over later. The matter at hand was the man she had tied up in her living room.

  “I’m not up for a religious debate with a man who invaded my home and now sits bound to a rocking chair. If you would, get on with it, and tell me what any of this has to do with my house.”

  “You shouldn’t have burned the book, Miss Cromwell.” Slade replied coldly. “It would be so much easier to explain.”

  “Do your best, Slade, and do it fast. I’m getting tired,” she glanced at the clock, “and it’s getting late.”

  Slade snapped his head up, eyes widening when he saw the time. He turned to glare at Dalia. “This is not a joke, Miss Cromwell.”

  Dalia sighed and motioned with her hand for him to continue.

  “It was unclear from the writing—you read some of it, how it rambled—but essentially he did believe he had found the secret to immortality. Not in the religious, afterlife definition, but here, in human form.”

  Dalia eyed him skeptically. “And you believe this?”

  Slade nodded curtly. “I do, indeed.”

  “Why?” Dalia practically screamed, her tone dripping with exasperation.

  Slade seemed to have noticed the wounds on his wrists for the first time, then leveled his gaze on her. “Because I met him, Miss Cromwell. I met Levi Coleridge in San Diego, at the Coronado Hotel to be exact. He would have been 112 years old at the time and looked to be about fifty.”

  Dalia laughed.
“Impossible. You’ve lost your mind, Slade. This is a fool’s errand. If Coleridge is immortal, where is he? Why am I sitting in his house?”

  “Coleridge is in prison, that’s why. He’ll be spending the rest of his life there, which is ironic when you think about it. I fear they’ll be in for a surprise as the years pass.”

  Dalia gaped at him. Surely, he couldn’t believe such nonsense? Whatever she’d thought about Slade before was forgotten. She saw him only as a desperate old man grasping at lunatic ideas because he was afraid of death.

  Slade continued, “As I mentioned, the Cherokee believe in the Nunnehi. Coleridge spent most of his time, from what I could gather, in the Southwest. Navajo territory. He stumbled on a small tribe, perhaps one that went unnamed throughout history, that was a mix of two or more cultures. They were secluded from civilization, somewhere in the Sonoran Desert, probably in Mexico. He lived with them for several years, learning their culture, accepting their beliefs, and essentially became one of their tribe.” Slade was leaning forward, as best he could in his bonds, relishing the story he told.

  “The final test was a vision quest. One of the tribal elders sent Coleridge into the desert alone, with only the clothes on his back. He returned weeks later, sunburned, dehydrated, and starved nearly to death. Coleridge told me the tribe was ill. While he was gone, many had died, the rest were very sick, dying.” Slade looked at Dalia, his expression unreadable. “I’ll get back to that. The elder took Coleridge into the Cave of the Ancients. Tradition was to share the events of the vision quest, and the elder would try to decipher the meaning.

  “Coleridge said the elder shared the secret of the Immortals with him because he knew the tribe was doomed. When the last of them died, Coleridge headed east. Soon after, he came into a large sum of money and built this house.” Slade stopped, craning his neck to look around the room, as if seeing it for the first time.

  Dalia waited, but Slade said nothing more. His story had unnerved her. There was something mystical about it, but also unsettling. Like a modern fairy tale, but instead of a witch or a wolf in the woods, there was something in a cave. Something Coleridge took. Goosebumps rose on her arms when she realized what he meant. “He killed them all, didn’t he? After he took what he wanted?” Slade turned to her, and she knew she was right.

  “He described it with gleeful enthusiasm in his writing.” Slade said grimly.

  For the first time, Dalia regretted burning the book. “Zadie died because of this nonsense,” she whispered. “Finish your story, Slade.” The flames in the fireplace guttered, dimming the room and bringing a sudden chill. Outside, the cold November wind shrieked mercilessly, rattling the windows.

  Slade shrugged, as best he could in his bonds. “There’s not much to tell. Coleridge lived here until about ten years ago. He traveled to San Diego, in search of what, I do not know. From his ramblings, I believe he’d become disillusioned with eternal life. He’s…done things…to maintain it. Things that weighed on his soul.

  “I met him out there, but he called himself Taylor. I think people in this town had become suspicious of the man who lived in the old house who never seemed to get older. I do know that he started the process to essentially fake his own death. When he never returned, the state took over the property and auctioned it off.”

  Dalia thought about Slade’s story. There was something he wasn’t telling. Then she realized what it was. “Coleridge never returned and he’s in prison for life. This happened after he met you?” She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her voice.

  Slade nodded. “Give the woman a Kewpie Doll, she solved the mystery,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “What did you do?” Dalia whispered.

  Slade sighed. “Nothing I’m particularly proud of, I’m afraid. But you know what they say; desperate times.” His voice trailed off.

  Dalia waited, her unease growing. Clearly, there was more treachery to Slade than she originally thought. He might be crazy, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t crafty.

  “It’s not like he was one of the innocents, Miss Cromwell. I’ve already told you what he did to an entire Native American tribe, but there was more. Things he did to preserve himself, and the house.”

  Dalia cut him off. “What did you do, Slade? In San Diego?”

  Slade leveled his gaze on her. “I killed a woman, a transient. A prostitute, to use the modern vernacular.” There was not an ounce of remorse in his tone. “And I pinned it on Coleridge.” He exhaled a laugh of sorts. “It was pathetically easy. The police bought it, hook, line, and sinker.” Slade snapped the bloody fingers on one hand awkwardly, the ties digging deeper into his flesh. “Levi Coleridge out of the picture.”

  Something still wasn’t making sense. Dalia ran it back in her head. Coleridge goes missing and is assumed dead, the house goes up for auction…there it was. “Why now? Why didn’t you come ten years ago, when the house was empty?”

  Slade stared contemptuously. “I’m afraid I outfoxed myself. You see, I was able to extract Coleridge’s entire story through my wiles, everything but the location of the house. I didn’t realize Coleridge was using an alias until it was too late. I think it goes without saying that he isn’t being very cooperative these days. Anyway, I assumed he’d built the house somewhere in the Southwest, especially since I’d met him in San Diego.”

  Dalia laughed, slapping a palm on her thigh. “You’ve been looking for this house for ten years?” Her laughter did nothing to hide the incredulity. Slade scowled as color rose in his cheeks. “I guess ten years is a small price to pay when you’re talking about immortality.” She giggled, the uncontrollable laughter of a schoolgirl in church. Whether she believed the story was irrelevant, his foolishness was the matter at hand. After a moment, she got herself under control. She wiped her eyes and stared at Slade. His visage was lethal, and Dalia could barely suppress another bout of laughter.

  “Are you quite through, Miss Cromwell?” Slade asked through clenched teeth, his lips a taut line. “This isn’t getting either of us any closer to what we want, is it?”

  “No, I guess it isn’t. But I haven’t laughed like that since things were good with Zadie. I’d forgotten what it feels like.”

  Slade was exasperated. “I’m glad I could be of some entertainment. Now, please release me from these infernal bonds, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Dalia gawked at him. “You can’t be serious. You think I’m going to let you go?”

  “What choice do you have?” He retorted.

  “Well,” Dalia said, “I could call the police and tell them everything. Including your escapades in San Diego. Or, I could kill you and bury you in the cellar. Can you believe there’s a dirt floor down there?”

  Slade looked neither amused nor afraid. “I assure you, there’s only one way this ends, and it is not with me in custody or dead.”

  Dalia regarded him with distaste. “You’re a lot more confident so far away from the fire.” She stood and tossed two more logs into the flames, enjoying the blast of heat on her back as she turned to face him. Slade wasn’t shaken.

  “You’ve ridiculed the reason I’m here and listened to nothing I’ve had to say. Why not give me what I’ve come for and be done with me?” He cocked his head, eyebrows raised.

  Dalia shrugged. “I see. It’s time to confront me with the logical way out. Here’s the problem with your offer.” She walked to the back of the chair and rocked it, not pushing it forward. Yet. “You still haven’t told me what you came for.” She nudged the chair forward. It worked last time.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Slade said, his voice an octave higher than it had been. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, exasperated that she couldn’t find the answer herself. “I’ve come for the Elder’s Stone, sometimes called the Trinity Stone. It’s the reason he built Coleridge. The stone, the owner, and the house are bound by it. Think about what I’ve told you, woman. Coleridge has only
been gone ten years. What condition was the house in when you found it?”

  Dalia recalled again the day she first saw the house. It was decrepit, literally falling apart. It was a house that looked abandoned for decades.

  “The stone and its owner are bound together, along with a place. The elders kept it in a cave, Coleridge brought it here. When he left, the trinity was broken.” Slade licked his lips, his eyes wide and not quite sane. “I will have the stone, Miss Cromwell. Surely your girlfriend told you where it is. She didn’t write about it in her little diary. Why are you being so thickheaded?”

  Dalia closed her eyes against the red wave that threatened to consume her. She leaned in close so her lips almost brushed Slade’s ear. “Zadie was my wife, my soulmate. I’ve told you before to watch how you speak of her. I am not the simple-minded one here, Slade. I would contend that a person in a precarious position such as yourself who insults his captor might be considered thickheaded. Finally, Zadie’s words are precious to me. It was her journal, her heart, not her little diary.” She spat the last two words, relishing Slade’s flinch. Then she pushed his chair toward the fire, grabbed Zadie’s journal, and stalked toward the kitchen. She turned to Slade. “Not so much as a word from you, Slade. And if I hear you trying to break those ties, you’ll regret ever laying eyes on me. More than you probably do already. My face will be the last thing you see before I send you to Hell.”

  FIFTEEN: Zadie’s Last Words

  Dalia returned to the kitchen clutching the journal. Leaving Slade alone, she knew, was unwise, but she feared what she might do to him if she stayed. Her little diary. The words echoed in Dalia’s head incessantly, like a child throwing a ball off the inside of her skull. Her instinct to kill Slade had diminished, but her desire hadn’t. The violence she had already displayed weighed on her, but Slade had plucked on the taut string of her last nerve.