A Natural History of Hell: Stories (12 page)

Arthur mumbled continuously, the two soldiers in hand, facing his troops, for over an hour. She waited for something to happen, for war to break out or for the wooden men to suggest an adventure, but the game, in which he seemed entirely invested, was all talk. She listened to make out his words and heard nothing but low barks and burbling mumbles, occasionally a heave, like a fatalist’s sigh.

“Arthur,” she called to him. “What’s happening to the soldiers?”

The boy stared at her over his shoulder. Emily waved to him. Then he turned, put the two soldiers in their empty places in the parade ground revue, and walked to the bookcase. He took a book down. She was horrified at his approach. She knew he would want her to take him in her lap and read him a story. No sooner had that realization dawned than she noticed his flesh had gone from a pale green to a light morbid blue. A clump of his hair fell out as he came across the room, a thin lock tumbled off his shoulder.

He held the book out and grunted. She took the volume from him, and then, holding her breath so as not to smell him, she reached out to take him into her lap. His flesh was the slick consistency of rotting mushrooms. When she began to read, she had to eventually breathe, and his aroma conjured in her mind an image of her holding a boy-sized toad. When Arthur made noise and pointed to the book’s illustrations, she heard it as croaking.

Only a chapter into the story of Saint George and the Dragon, the boy fell asleep in her arms. His stillness won over her revulsion, and she grew accustomed to his weight and scent. She thought of a spring day a few years earlier when last she’d gone out walking. Carlo was at her side. Just beyond town, the meadow was full of black-eyed Susans. The day was warm and the sun bright. Across the meadow she and the dog moved in among the birch trees and continued on for a mile or more. As she approached a pond, leaves floating upon its surface, she felt a sharp pain in her breast, and woke to Arthur trying to bite her through her day dress.

She cried out and quickly set him on the floor. He showed her his big mouth full of brown shards and she smacked his face. The boy crumpled down onto the rug. She called out his name in a whisper, so as not to let his mother hear. He sprang up onto all fours, gave her another smile, and crawled in circles around the table and chair. To her horror, she noticed her handprint in pale green against the darker blue of his flesh. For the rest of the afternoon, he kept his distance from her and growled if she made any overture of contact.

Luckily, by dinner her handprint had vanished into the overall violet of his face. His flesh seemed to have come unstrung, sagging down in ripples around his neck and making cuffs at his wrists. His breathing had grown labored, and he cried out occasionally as if in pain. He sat, at the head of the dining room table, strapped into a high chair that was much too small for him. Sabille sat to his right and Emily to his left. For the sixth time his mother lifted a spoon of gruel into his mouth, forcing it far down his throat. The child gagged the portion into his stomach and a moment later Emily lifted the half-full bowl she held in order to catch his vomit. The process was repeated with each spoonful. “It’s the only way,” Sabille repeated as if saying a prayer. Emily was desperate to scream “The dead don’t eat,” but held her peace.

At the other end of the table was Quill in the guise of the old laborer, John Gullen. He watched the bizarre feeding, seemingly unable to touch his stew. At one point, Emily looked at him and caught his eye. In her mind she heard his young gentleman’s voice say, “I’ve seen few things grimmer than this.”

“I’m nauseous,” Emily told him in her thoughts.

“At bedtime tonight, try to be near enough to them to hear the spell. If I have to spend another day here chopping wood,
I’ll
expire.”

The last spoonful had been loaded and returned, and Sabille said, “Dagmar, if you’ll clean him and bring him upstairs in a minute, I’ll prepare his bed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Emily.

Quill stood when the Widow Cremint left the table. Emily set to washing up Arthur, who was slick with gruel and vomit. She gagged more than once in the process. The entire time she worked on him, the boy mumbled at a furious pace, and every now and then released a weak howl of pain. When she was finished cleaning him, he pulled his thumbnail off. It came away from its bed easy as breathing. He dropped it into her open palm, and she put it in her pocket. She hugged him to her and thought she felt him kiss the spot he’d earlier bitten.

Sabille stripped the day’s clothes from Arthur’s sagging, violet body, and then she and Emily fitted him into the felt bag he slept in. His head stuck out of the end of the sack, and a drawstring was tied snugly around his neck. Carrying him to the bed, Sabille called him “my little caterpillar.” When she set his head upon the pillow, strands of hair fell free. Emily waved and wished the boy a sweet night’s sleep. She stepped back but didn’t leave the room.

“You may go now,” said Sabille.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Emily, and exited but made sure to only close the door partway. She hid just outside in the darkened upstairs hallway and waited. Through the sliver of an opening, she watched as the mother knelt next to the bed, cooing and shushing the child who rocked frantically from side to side. After a time Arthur finally lay still. She watched Sabille lean over, her mouth near the child’s ear.

Emily turned her own ear to the opening. Sabille’s whisper was so very low, but each of the words of the spell registered in the poet’s mind with utter clarity, like the tap of a pin against a crystal goblet. There were three stanzas, and she thought she knew them. She pulled away from the door and leaned back against the wall. “I’ve got it,” she thought, hoping he would hear her.

His voice sounded behind her eyes. “Good. Now
run
,” he yelled, and the words echoed through even her most distant memories. “Run to the road.”

She slipped away from the open door and crept down the stairs, easing her boots down on each step so as not to be discovered. When she reached the door, her fear banished caution. She flung it open and trounced across the porch, knowing now she’d be heard. Emily hadn’t run since she was a girl, but her walking in the woods with Carlo allowed her to keep a steady pace. She dashed along the winding, tree-lined path that led to the road. Only ten yards into her flight, she heard the ungodly baying of some creature. She ran faster, but before long heard the thing galloping behind her.

She pictured a muscular, sleek animal with six legs. When she turned to steal a look, she saw it in the moonlight. It was no beast, but the gentleman in the daguerreotypes, General Cremint. He was naked and wielding a saber. Both the sounds of galloping and baying issued from his open mouth. His eyes were missing, just two black holes. When he noticed Emily glance at him, Sabille’s voice came forth, “
Spy
,” she screamed. “
Spy
.”

The old man gained on her, and she could feel the breeze of his flashing sword at the back of her neck. Up ahead she saw the end of the path and the silhouette of the brougham, waiting. Just then the carriage’s lanterns blossomed with light. She was tiring, her legs cramping, and she heard Quill calling from the open door, “Lap the miles, Miss Dickinson. Lick the valleys up.” She pushed harder but felt the sword tip slice through her hair. The brougham was only feet away.

As she reached for Quill’s outstretched hands, Emily saw the driver stand in his box, his arm moving in a sudden arc. She heard the crack of his whip. General Cremint whimpered and fell behind. Quill grabbed her then beneath the arms and lifted her into the brougham. The horses sprang forth, the door of the carriage slammed closed, and they were off. Emily looked quickly to catch one more view of her assailant, the general, sitting in the road, crying, turning slowly to smoke. She moved to the bench across from Quill. Leaning back, catching her breath, she said, “I’ve forgotten the spell.”

“Don’t worry,” said Quill, again a young gentleman, the rose still fresh in his lapel. “Once you heard it,
I
was able to hear it, and I’ve got it. Part of the spell was that every night when she used it on the boy I’d never be able to hear it. Once
you
heard it, though, I could hear it in your thoughts. Sabille is already weak. Evidence of that is the illusion of her dead husband she set on you. She must be going mad.”

“An illusion?”

“A deadly illusion, but still conjured from nothing.”

“It’s inevitable she’ll lose the child?” Emily asked.

“Exactly. And now you must get to work on the counterspell.” The brougham came to a halt. She looked out the window to see that they’d returned to the Town Tomb. Again it was snowing and the drifts around the entrance to the sunken house were ever higher.

“Why are we here again? I’ve done what you asked.”

“I certainly didn’t recruit you for your running prowess,” he said. “You’re a poet, and now begins your work. Come see,” he said. “I’ve brought your writing table from home.” He’d removed his glove again. His fingers snapped.

She stood in freezing, damp darkness. She heard the wind howling as if at a distance, and then heard the scratch and spark of Quill lighting a match. The flame illuminated his face. He smiled at her, his breath a cloud of steam, and tossed the lit match over his shoulder. A moment later there was a hushed explosion, a sudden burst of flame, and the place came into view. At first she thought she was in a cave, but a moment later realized it was the Town Tomb.

Quill stood warming himself before a fireplace dug into the rock wall. She saw her writing table and chair. “See here,” he said, and pointed to a swinging iron bar that could put a cauldron of water over the flame. “I’ve acquired your gold and white tea set. You can make tea. What type are you partial to? I’m guessing marble.”

She glared at him. “Something strong, and I’ll need a bottle of spirits.”

“Spirits?”

“Whiskey,” she said. “I’ll need paper and a copy of the spell.”

“There you are,” he said, and pointed to her writing table, now complete with pen and inkwell and a stack of fresh paper. He turned and pointed again, and a few feet left of the fireplace there stood a wooden bar, a decanter of whiskey, and glasses. “If you need ice, you can go outside,” he said. “It will always be winter while you’re here.”

“What exactly am I to do?”

“Create a counterspell to Sabille’s spell.”

“How is one to begin on something like this?”

“That’s the challenge,” said Quill.

“How long do I have?”

“Eternity, or until you succeed.”

“Then I go back.”

“For twenty-five years,” he said.

“It’s blackmail,” she said.

“Laws don’t apply here, Miss Dickinson. Death is no democracy.” He walked toward the door of the tomb. “Might as well get started,” he said.

“How will I know if I’m even close?”

“That’ll be up to you.” The huge door of the tomb slid open. As Quill went out, winter came in, snow flying and a wicked chill. With a distinct click, the door closed, and the wind and world were again distant. Emily took her seat at the writing table. She lit the taper in the candlestick for extra light and adjusted the tulle across her shoulders, a meager attempt at protection against the darkness of the tomb. She felt its blind depths like a breathing presence behind her. Lifting the page on which Quill had copied the spell, she noted his clear and elegant handwriting. The paper smelled of saffron. She read the words of the spell, but nothing registered. It didn’t seem to be what she’d heard. Leaning over the scented page, as if to communicate with it as much as read it, she recited its stanzas in a whisper.

Stir, stir, stir

And stay

No leave to go away

Burn, burn, burn

And rise

The sun will be your open eyes

Stir, stir, stir

And stay

All of time to love and play.

After an hour of contemplation, Emily decided that the spell was useless to her. The magic of the words sprang from the traditions of a culture she knew nothing about. She surmised that her first solution, attempting to rearrange the words of the spell into a poem in order to counteract it, would have no effect. Dogmatic belief in anything was foreign to her. She crumpled the sheet of stanzas, got up, and threw it in the fire. The moment the flames licked the balled sheet black, she felt lighter, like a boat cutting loose its anchor and drifting. She made tea and put whiskey in it.

Sitting, sipping her brew, she noticed that she again wore her own white cotton day dress. She was clear that what she would do was simply write a poem, whatever came to her, and hope that somehow it would have some bearing on the spell. Presentiment, something she’d written about before—“The Notice to the startled Grass that darkness is about to pass”—was to be the order of the long night. She set a sheet of paper in front of her, moistened her pen in the inkwell and then sat there, staring, listening to the blizzard outside, searching for words in its distant shriek. An hour passed, maybe a day or year.

Later, she was brought to by the sound of a groan emanating from the dark back of the tomb where the winter’s harvest lay frozen. When the enormous stillness had swallowed the noise, Emily was unsure if she’d really heard it or only heard it in her thoughts. She turned in her chair and looked into the shadows. “Hello?” she called. While she waited for a response, she realized that as long as she’d been in the tomb, she’d not been hungry, she’d not slept, and had no call for a chamber pot. No answer came back from the dark.

She put the tulle around her shoulders and opened the door of the tomb. She was surprised by how easily the enormous weight of it slid back. In a moment the blizzard was upon her. She took two steps out into a drift that reached to her thighs and looked up into the snow-filled night. It wasn’t long before the fierce wind forced her to retreat. Once back inside, the tomb door closed, she swung the water cauldron out over the perpetual fire. Tea and whiskey were her only pleasures. She’d noticed that, when she wasn’t looking, the decanter refilled itself.

Waiting for the water to come to a boil, she rubbed her hands together in front of the fire, and once they’d warmed she shoved them into her dress pockets. When first she felt the dried gentian petals, she thought them just some scrap of paper she’d jotted a line on at some point. But when she touched the child’s nail, she remembered. The water boiled, and she made the tea she’d dreamed about, lacing the brew with a generous shot of whiskey to offset the taste of the boy’s nail that twirled atop its plum-colored depths.