Prose
The Evil One (Plus One)
If only you had seen the light, dear reader…
How beautiful it was, in moment and in memory, how brilliant-burning each barrier of the crimson-glass light!
How majestically the barriers radiated off in all directions, in bewildering fireplay, from where the Just Angel in the window cast her spirit; crimson-feathered and crimson-eyed—and ever so cold! Here she stood till Armageddon, guarding the foothills of Paradise from where she looked down upon the gypsy in passionless expression, her eyes regal, her lips taut—her spear and shield rested at her feet, within reach of one hand; with her other raised heavenward, she seemed to bid the gypsy to hold his tongue.
People like you and I, the civilized men and women of polite society—we know better than to disregard the demands of angels, don’t we? Yes, that’s right—and if we don’t, how quickly we learn! But you must understand, reader; this wasn’t, in all truth, an entirely civilized man. Even if he had been, after the black lay of fortune that fell only the night before, I don’t think that anyone would have expected the gypsy to allow this celestial demand to move him— No, he could not heed this demand! It was beyond him; at this point it was totally beyond his control; he ignored it, he swallowed the demand and spat it out backwards, he took it instead as an invitation to speak; he had to; he hadn’t the will to restrain the words that burst through his heart and against the silence…
Forgive me! he cried aloud. Forgive me!
O—please forgive me!
And I must tell you, how sure I am that such forgiveness would have lightened his burden! Yes, how a single word or sign from the empyrean would have lightened his eternal burden most immensely!
But instead the Just Angel kept her stillness and her silence, as did the coldburning mute light that emanated from behind and above her three crimson-glass wings…
Pray, have mercy on my soul!
Would that he could have been delivered from his actions! Such is the hope of all misguided sinners who, upon stumbling impulsively down an unfamiliar path, only too-late turn back and register their footsteps imprinted on the trail of wickedness. He was not beyond regret—nor shame neither, dear reader; his heart was penitent, truly, as penitent as I truly believe in the depths of my own old heart that penance can be; but what difference did it make? His actions were his alone, and so this great burden was to fall on his shoulders and none-other’s, and he wondered, just as you or I might in such guilty circumstance, if deliverance was even possible, in this world or the next, and as he looked again into the crimson eyes of the Just Angel in plaintive question, he saw a flicker of warlike heat enter those otherwise gelid flames, and he shivered now, and turned away from his arbiter, and did not exclaim forth again…
Yes, his sin was his own, and the young master was gone.
His fingers dug into the splintered pew before him.
The chamber was modest, the light above still incited fear within him; a sensation he feared could remain within his frame for-ever; no matter that its source seemed from him so very far away; and all was beyond remedy; he was no mender;
only his right hand extended his mortal means, containing that twisted hereditary bone that had embedded itself in the palms of all proxies of his race since they first spilled forth down from the crevasses of Karpathene. He had the one gift of plunder—it was not within his power to return that which had already been taken…
Kind reader, these were the known circumstances.
In the great tapestried bedroom of the manor-house, candle-wax had spattered over the oaken floor in the midst of the night, unwitnessed by living eyes, and there like demiurgal seed it had calcified over the young master’s fingertips; and it followed that in the morning, when the young master’s attendants had found him as he had become, and wept over him bitterly, and, when weeping subsided enough to allow further action, placed him in appropriate repose—what was left behind was the shadow-space of his broad fingers, the least silhouette memorializing where a handsome sinuous weight had slid to the oaken floor, and one day perhaps the wax too would be gone—but not yet, this casting of so many fates—and so what did it matter, this introduction of regret into the chambers of the gypsy’s black heart—
Yes, all was beyond remedy!
What a sad settling of affairs this was, dear reader, and to most it would have been most unexpected—for all hearts had been full of light just one dream of a night preceding, all hearts but one—as the festivities, spectacular even when placed against all prior incarnations of the young master’s lauded fêtes, had extended through the witching hours into the early-morn, and even by the standards of such famous celebration, what splendid moments the merry revelers had been enjoying!
O, reader, if only you had been present, if only you had seen it all!
There had been smiles on every face, every face but one, and the little blue military tot-glasses were filled again and again, circled over the head like a halo—once, twice, and again—then brought to the lips of the revelers:
To the fatherland! To fortune!
To life, to life!
So they all cheered as one—and knocked their tot-glasses prone upon the tabletops with the pride and joy of a company of cannons.
Ten thousand years!
And how the spirits within the glasses warmed their hearts, reader, and how their own heart-spirits soared aloft!
And dancing, what dancing!
All of the traditional styles of our people were well-represented; first they danced the pinwheel, then the trident, and then the labyrinth; if you had seen the movements of the dancers from above, well, you would have found their forms were as a flock on a breathturn of wind, ebbing and escalating in and out of themselves, as swift as coursers, as singular of purpose as a piscine school; all brought together with most honest delight for the bright and simple cause of merry-making! Yes, all feet found themselves within the movements, at least once, all feet flew light; all save those of—
My friends, my friends! Though they would never be heard again, the young master’s words still echoed over the grounds of the estate—how gallant he had seemed only the night before! With these words the young master had commenced the fête, a cast of warmth coursing through his handsome features; hot and hale blood in the veins that pumped from shoulder to wrist; iron sparking in his hawk-eyes, in that courtly gaze that lingered equally on all those gathered—such magnanimous and hospitable acknowledgement! With these words, so generally spoken, it had somehow seemed that he was addressing each of his guests individually; and even those who knew him only tangentially felt as though he held them as dearly in his heart as those with whom he had shared closeness for decades … So he had begun the ceremonies.
My friends, my friends… what care, what brotherly affection in his words!
So-too the young master had taken his leave, with the festivities still ongoing, as they would for some while following his departure—for the best, for all assembled, for never again would such a night rise over these grounds … his habits had always been as such; he was never one for moderation, and the joyous strain of attending to the little world he had created coupled soporifically with the aquavit in his belly—and is it not better in such circumstances for the gentleman of the manor to retire while the echoes of music and conversation can still be heard? Wouldn’t we all take delight, if positioned as such, in hearing those sounds circle faintly our perception, lulling us into the fields of dreaming? To know as we slip away how much joy we have granted to those around us? So it was; at his chosen hour the musicians were pressed for to play his most favourite old melody, and following he asked for a final drink to be set in preparation for his retirement, a large sleeping-goblet of glühwein, and a candelabra with which to read some verse, and with these requests met, to be taken to his quarters, while for all others, the night continued in great happiness, for all but one…
Dear reader, I can attest to this in complete certainty: it had not been the gypsy who had filled the sleeping-goblet, and no one remembered that the gypsy had so much as looked in the direction of the draught, let alone slipped his fingers near it on its way to the young master’s bedside; the gypsy himself was certain of this; indeed, there was nothing found by the physician in the remnants of the draught other than that which had been demanded…
But did this matter? The gypsy was the sort to be privy to all manner of ways to adjust or to sever a man’s fortune, yes, but while methods towards undoing may have lain hidden on a chain above his breast and up his embroidered sleeve, there were none so potent as his innate gift; that which operated without regards to time or space, but could be beckoned only through a hideous truth of feeling—a truth he had seen enacted once before, then twice, then again. Always with meaning. But never so thoughtlessly—never before, not once had he felt regret…
It was not my intention, the gypsy said, quietly, speaking no further to the Just Angel or any force stationed above it; speaking neither to himself; he whispered his little falsehoods to the empty room, to the stones beneath his feet, to wooden benches surrounding where he sat cradling his right palm in his left.
These ends are beyond me.
Nothing answered at all. His voice grew quieter.
I didn’t know, you see.
He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the nothing around him; expecting a tear to drop from one, perhaps.
But I am so sorry, he continued soundlessly. So he was—but:
She had spoken at length to the young master, and the gypsy had seen it—seen how their gazes joined together, and how they whispered lowly in one another’s ears, how the young master took her hand in his own. How could the gypsy even begin to affix upon his face the shallow pretense of a smile? No, this was so far beyond him, or beyond what he was rebecoming; he had turned away and eschewed his little flask for one of the household’s crystal decanters, which he downed alone near the smallest hearth, darkening in the gloom-light, feeling the heat rise in his skull and in the little bone in his hand, until the sun rose and she found him. And it was then that they retired together, and all was forgotten.
No, that wasn’t quite right; when the young master had left for his quarters, the gypsy had stood and bid him farewell, in one way or another, in an honest manner…
And perhaps it was the gypsy who had found her, on a later hour in the night, not yet lightening to morning, tossing white petals from her flower-crown into the lilypond; and when she turned in recognition of his clicking footsteps, she embraced him warmly, oblivious in her own delight to the shades of hungry reprisal that emanated from the outline of his being. Something most wonderful happened tonight, she said, didn’t she?
The gypsy did not respond.
And she continued: the young master, I only now have learned, traveled some years ago through the lakeside village of Waldrava, which, as you are certainly aware, my family has long owned a small estate upon which is situated a fisherman’s hut, and an ornamental orchard, and a modest summer-house, where each such season I visit with my father and sisters for a fortnight or so.
She smiled.
His only visit to Waldrava of any length worthy of note was in the wintertime, where one business or another for the Corps compelled his brief stationing. He was accommodated, I have been made aware, in the residence of our nearest neighbor at the time, a dowager of great wealth and pedigree, if somewhat Saturnian character…
The petals floating on the surface of the lilypond descended slowly into the black of the lightless water, beckoning the gypsy closer.
No matter, she said. Hear this: it was during the young master’s stay at this estate that he made the acquaintance of one of her housemaids, a woman of no standing but especial beauty; blessed-too with wit that matched his own in such a fashion he swore to me he had never encountered before or hence. What followed over the following days was only to be expected. However fleeting this romance, it nevertheless marked his heart deeply, and he swore he would return when his service permitted to claim her as his bride.
So a trysting-place and time were set for his next passage through the region. The dowager of the estate, however, held the traditional views on these matters, and, incensed as she was upon the discovery of the affair, had her maid removed from the household and sent to work for one of the old woman's relations in a distant reach of the state.
So when the young master returned, he was met not with his expected reunion, but a simple and cold-spoken letter ending the affair, in all terms, demanding unequivocally a stoppage to all further contact.
Of course, she told the gypsy, this was entirely a work of deceit; the widow’s cruel handiwork and nothing more.
Indeed, the gypsy replied, stepping forward, the tip of his boots touching the surface of the water.
Don’t you see? she said.
Yes, he saw enough.
For all these years, this is why he has never taken a serious lover—this lost housemaid has remained forever on his mind. Neither his heartbreak nor any of his personal triumphs and delights in the time following could erase her.
But tonight is where things took a most well-blessed turn.
While in conversation with myself, the lakeside village came up quite incidentally, and overtaken with the spirits of the night, the young master was compelled to tell me his sorry story. And—can you believe this miracle of Providence!—it so happens that I was able to provide him the happy news that upon the death of my neighbor, the aforementioned old widow, this young woman returned to Waldrava and entered service in my own family’s household—where—through the natural flow of idle speech—I heard her own telling of the same story, and how she still carries her love for our beloved gentleman!
You see, through similar devices of falsehood and cruelty, it was she who thought she had been forsaken.
But despite this, she loves him, she still loves him… she had never mentioned his name to me! I had no idea until tonight that the gentleman in this story of hers was our young master!
The gypsy met her eyes—her crimson eyes!—how red they had become, so fireset with emotion!—she leaned towards him and kissed him tenderly on the lips. He was submerged to his knees in the lilypond; try as he might, he could cover himself no further.
I have promised to arrange a meeting between the two of them as soon as I rise upon the morrow, she said breathlessly. And they shall at last be joined as one, and we shall dance together at their wedding, and following our world shall know only happiness!
I could weep, my dearest friend! How glorious is this little life! So many black coincidences, yes—but sometimes, sometimes destiny is enough to right all wrongs of happenstance! And so darling it is! So beautiful, so beautiful is this life we lead!
The gypsy saw the still wax, hard as stone over the fingers of the young master, and plastered deep around the shape of his hand into the cracks in the ancient hereditary oak, and he could see the space in the air where the young master’s breath used to dance in the light. He looked up from the pew and into the crimson-glass window above him. The black serpent, trapped beneath the feet of the Just Angel, sank its teeth into the roots of a pomegranate tree. The gypsy parted his lips, but before he could whisper again, he heard a voice in the hall behind him, calling his name, beckoning his presence elsewhere.
He rose and departed, his hands in his pockets.
Dear reader, I am an old man, and my body is beginning to fail me, but my mind carries its particular burdens yet.
When I return from the Capital to Ritterkrug by train, upon disembarking, I send my luggage ahead to the heights overlooking the growing town below via carriage and buy a bouquet of hyacinths from the florist.
Following, and without fail, I walk past the fountain in the square and fish out two silver coins from the basin, the old coins, from the mintings before the last war. Of course no one will move to stop one such as myself, not here, not now…
I take the footpath into the hills, the one which passes the cemetery, and find a stately headstone, near the center of the grounds.
Upon the stone, I lay the flowers; in the earth below, I bury the coins, their faces up beneath the sod, and feel them sink down far below from where I stand. I cross myself and earth and sky, and slowly, on aching bones, I make my way to the old house.
I never sleep on that first night.
Reader, I am riding that very train now, and a young boy, not more than thirteen or fourteen years of age, clad in a slim, slate-grey suit, as is the current fashion of the youth, has just been carried off in a stretcher, leaving his mandolin cracked on the floor near his seat where he collapsed. I have little discernment as to what in fact befell him, only that he seemed to have been struck with a sort of conniptious fit … it was just moments ago that he was playing, with some skill, an assortment of songs on his instrument, mostly in the modern style. I am an old man, ill-versed in regards to today’s compositions, so I could not speak as to whether the most of them were his own verses or simply the popular tunes of this new era. But at last, reader, he began to play an old lied that I did recognize, and it’s true, it did at once incite a faint, old sort of emotion to rise skywardly within my heart, and I found myself almost long-ago … I cannot begin to imagine what this melody would have drawn from me if I had been able to hear it through its conclusion…
But his fit struck him most abruptly; the instrument fell from his hands and cracked upon the floor of the train-car, and his eyes rolled back into his head, and he began to froth at the mouth and twitch—twitch monstrously! So the train was halted, and he was taken away, and his mandolin still lies broken on the floor, and I wonder, as little as I wonder about anything at all, as to his well-being—so strange it is to glimpse the misfortune of others through such fleeting overlap in our lived experiences! It must be natural for us civilized men and women to feel some sympathy for our fellows, and to wonder, don’t you think?—as to whether these glimpsed sufferers find an escape from their apparent fates, or whether the last we see of them in our lives marks an ultimate last—that total conclusion of their own—and perhaps there is nothing to do but pray;
and even that, dear reader, must be done with care; whether or not such an act holds any meaning, it ought to be done carefully … the train is now delayed, of course, and it shall be late evening before I arrive at Ritterkrug Station, and in the heights above, my soup in all likelihood will have gone cold at my empty table.
Once, reader, I would have allowed myself to wonder if the attendants of my household would be so gracious as to wait up for my arrival, to welcome their master with a friendly toast for to warm us all, or even but a kind word of greeting; if they’d put the pot back upon the fire, if they’d perhaps light the flames in the largest hearth as well, so as to illuminate the windows to draw their wandering old master home; yes, I would’ve allowed this possibility to roll about within me … but it’s been a long enough life, I know, to know exactly that which I have been placed into; so I do not dream of more, I do not dream;
I do not wonder if more fortune will fall upon me than that which has already blessed me, nor that which has cursed, and I do not wonder further as to the design of that which already has met me here on this path, this lengthy widened path upon which I still find myself. Yet—there are times when I just can’t help myself, and for an instant, reader, I do wonder this:
Is it true, is it really true, that angels watch over us?
And if they do—what is it that will compel them at last to act?
No matter.
No matter at all!
Gentle reader, don’t you see? Wherever you go, you mustn’t fail to take stock of your life and cherish each moment as it greets you! For there is no telling when any of us may be cut down like grain, in our faltering or in our triumphs!
O God! Forgive me for saying this, but—O, what a mystery is this little life! There’s no telling to the likes of us why anything might happen at all! Yes, how blessed, how cursed indeed, how surprisingly beyond our control!
Saoirse Bertram is an Irish-American writer and editor from Fairbanks, Alaska.