Hell, p.17
Hell, page 17
Yurgis regained his feet, brushing himself off, using his kerchief to wipe the blood from his brow. “This is my daughter, Tatiana. Tat, this is Maria Seldeen, daughter of my greatest friend.”
“Is that all I ever was to you?” Maria growled, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to take her eyes off of Tat.
Yurgis shrugged half-heartedly while Maria looked like she might start crying at any moment. With obvious difficulty, she pulled herself together. Banished was the scorned woman, replaced with the world-weary hostess.
“Well, you must be tired. Come in, rest and be welcome.” She surprised Tat by resolutely taking her hand and leading her into the house, Yurgis following closely behind.
The crowded entry chamber opened onto a dreary front room populated with overstuffed chairs and sofas. A thick patina of dust covered nearly everything. In seeming rebellion against the midsummer sunshine, all the shades were drawn, lending a creepy atmosphere to the musty room, which the flickering firelight from the central hearth did nothing to dispel. The combined effect of the silence, the dust and the eerie firelight invited comparisons to venturing into an undisturbed tomb, a place where something died long ago. It seemed that while this might’ve once been a popular meeting place, it had since fallen on hard times.
Now that her eyes were adjusting to the dim interior, she received an unexpected pang of homesickness. Arrayed upon every flat surface, Maria’s hoard of small treasures, painfully reminiscent of her little wagon room, sat quietly gathering dust; antiques, keepsakes, memories. Teacups and thimbles, collectible plates and stamps, ceramic figurines, paper flowers and candy hearts. The accumulated detritus of a life. Her eyes picked out a beautiful crystal menagerie, briefly wondering what cherished recollection it represented for her.
These musings were interrupted by the distinct feeling that she was being watched. It set her nerves on end, this aura of unseen observation. wandering through an archway into a disused parlor, she shivered, confronted with the source of her discomfort.
Maria’s prodigious doll collection immediately struck her as deeply disturbing. Countless pairs of painted, glass, and button eyes stared unblinking into the gloom, seeming to follow her wherever she went. Thousands of little girls, trapped in this lonely house, forgotten by the world. The sound of Yurgis’ voice, raised in impatience, brought her back to the moment at hand. With great relief, she turned her back, breaking away from this prison for pitiful simulacra...
“Where is your father? Where is Esion?”
Maria was several moments in answering, “Father died four years ago. Since then I have not taken in a single customer. Seems fitting that you are the first.” Maria did not look at him as she spoke, the venom in her voice, unmistakable.
Yurgis snorted in disbelief, “Esion Seldeen, dead? I don’t believe for a second.”
“Tis true…” Maria trailed off before continuing. “You know, he called for you on his deathbed. You were always his favorite.”
Tat sought to make herself unnoticeable, listening carefully as she curled up in a cracked leather recliner.
“You lie, I’d sooner believe news of my own death, where is grave?”
“You know where it is!” She shot back in anger.
Yurgis grew quiet, and when he did speak it was with a voice that cracked with unfamiliar emotion.
“Show my daughter to her room, you and I have things to discuss.” Dropping onto one of the antediluvian sofas, a cloud of dust puffing out.
Maria did not respond, instead retrieving a candelabra which she brashly lit in the fire. Offering her hand, Tat took it, following her up the stairs. The woman clutched her hand tightly, leading the way down a murky hallway. Judging by the way she kept glancing back, it was easy to conclude that Maria wished to speak to her, but something held her back. For a moment she considered breaking the ice herself, deciding it far easier to remain silent.
Rounding a corner, they ascended a second staircase to the third floor. As below, all the shades were drawn, and with naught but three candles for light, most of the hall was lost in darkness. Their passage kicked up so much dust that Tat sneezed thrice in quick succession.
Near the back of the house they came to a set of double doors.
“Here we are, home sweet home…”
The line rang hollow, like an echo from a brighter past. Maria swept inside, lighting several more candles, eschewing the drawn blinds, revealing an expansive master bedroom dominated by a four-post bed complete with arched canopy and crimson, velvet curtains.
After the harrowing day she’d had, a nap sounded wonderful. Looking to Maria for permission, she kicked off her boots and climbed in. It was a feather mattress, by far the softest thing she’d ever laid upon.
Maria leaned over and kissed her cheek, causing Tat to flinch involuntarily. “Sleep now, child, I’ll be back to check on you later.” She glided out of the room, followed by the clearly audible tic and tumble of a key turning in a lock.
She was sleepy, but it was imperative to investigate her surroundings first. Blowing out the candles, she pulled the blinds and wan sunlight streamed into the room. It was then that she noticed the bars. It had been impossible to tell from the outside, but all her windows were barred, like a prison. In the back of Tat’s mind this troubled her, but she was so overwhelmingly relieved to have a measure of safety and sanity again that she gave up and accepted it.
The view was uninspiring to say the least. The side window faced a sooty, brick wall, while the far one overlooked the overgrown backyard of the house, enclosed on all sides by similarly sooty, brick walls. Quickly losing interest in these drab glimpses into an unwelcoming reality, she turned her attention back to the room.
Above the fireplace hung a portrait done in the style of the old masters. The subject, a powerful man in the prime of his life, rendered so realistically that he took on a life of his own, making her quite uncomfortable. He looked dangerous, in the same way her father was dangerous, but the eyes bespoke a gentleness not present in Yurgis’ character. She looked closer, was this Esion Seldeen? No, it couldn’t be, even a cursory glance told her this picture was perhaps centuries old; it must be an ancestor.
The longer she studied his face, angular nearly to the point of gaunt, the more she noticed a growing unease, no, more of an agitation, coming over her. Though she tried to look away, the intensity of his gaze held her transfixed. The feeling growing so powerful she feared she would faint. It took all her will and determination to break this spell, which she achieved by reaching up and turning the portrait to face the wall.
As she crossed to the other side of the room, ostensibly to get away from the unnerving picture, she admired the intricate patterns on the magnificent Persian rug that stretched from wall to wall. Digging her toes into the thick, woollen weave elicited visions of aged artisans, bent over their primitive looms for hundreds of hours to produce a piece of this magnitude.
From the look of it, the antique furnishings appeared to be from the last century, displaying master craftsmanship in the elaborate carvings and scrollwork. An ornate writing desk sat in the far corner, would they be here long enough for her to use it? She searched around for writing utensils, the myriad tiny drawers empty except for an old key…
It looked like it had seen extensive use, the brass burnished to a shine from many turnings. Since she had no idea what such a mystery key might unlock, she was tempted to leave it, but a nagging suspicion wouldn’t allow her. She reached behind her neck, unclasped the silver chain and threaded the key onto it, where it hung next to Christ against her bare skin.
The towering armoire was likewise bare, save for a few stray mothballs. She took off the heavy robe and hung it up, followed by the rest of her clothes. Again drawing the blinds, she rolled naked into the soft bed, feeling like she was falling asleep on a cloud. She loosed the curtains and pulled the heavy folds of the duvet over her head, drawing it tight around her body.
Sleep refused to come; the bed was too soft. All her life she’d slept on a lumpy mattress stuffed with horsehair, her body was ill prepared for such comfort. She tossed and turned for a long hour until her back began to hurt. With an annoyed sigh, she stripped the pillows, sheets and quilt off the bed and onto the floor. Within minutes of laying down on the thick, woolen carpet, she was dropping off…
Crawling through a parched, burning desert with numerous vultures circling overhead. A hundred meters distant, an oasis beckoned, but no matter how far she crawled, it remained stubbornly fixed to the horizon. A mirage... no respite, only delusion. Unable to drag her desiccated husk any further, she collapsed, rolling onto her back with arms outstretched, staring unblinking into a pestilent sun.
The vultures wheeled, spiraled down and settled around her, picking apart her body. Screeching as they fought over the tastiest bits of her exposed viscera. Consumed with revulsion, she tried to strike out at them, but her arms refused to cooperate. No matter how much the pitiless scavengers devoured, she would not die; eaten alive, until only bones remained...
In the shape of a cross.
Upon waking, the room was dark, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. It was an all too familiar feeling, seeing as how she’d awakened in many strange places of late. The events of the past several weeks closed in on her. Things were moving fast now, the future a nebulous shadow hanging over her.
What troubled her more were the things she couldn’t recall. After emerging from her coffin-like crate aboard the ship, her recollection lapsed into shadow and illusion, becoming more incomprehensible with each passing hour. How had they gotten from the lifeboat to England? Had they ever, in fact, boarded a lifeboat at all?
These traitorous memories blatantly contradicted one another. The days she spent holed up in the wheelhouse with Dobra as he told sailor stories. Finding sanctuary in Yurgis’ empty crate in the hold. Talking with the Dark Man…
None of that ever happened.
Or did it?
It was no use, the more she traversed the labyrinthine corridors of her mind, the more lost she became. With a growing dismay she delved back into her past, searching for anything concrete. A long-suppressed memory struggled to surface; the time she had tried to run…
He had been a little older, her first love, the musician, Izaak…
There was a crash, followed by the sound of an intense argument. Maria and Yurgis were warring over something she couldn’t quite make out. It soon became crystal clear as the angry shouting slowed, abruptly changing tone. The next sound she heard was a rhythmic thumping she knew all too well. It was the sound of the physical act of love, but whereas in her experience solely a one sided affair, now sounding like two scavengers fighting over a fresh carcass. Guttural howls and growls issuing from both, inevitably reaching a climax with united cries of passion. Tat, sickened with disgust, lay hard through the ensuing silence.
For the next hour or so she drifted in and out of shallow, uneasy sleep. At one point snapping awake, discerning the sound of diminutive, feminine steps. She tensed up at the tic and tumble of a key turned in a lock, and Maria entered. She did not appear surprised by the empty bed, instead approaching the spot where she lay.
“Tatiana, are you awake? Can I talk with you?”
“I… I guess so.” She nervously stammered.
Maria lay down, putting her arms around her, enfolding her in an intimate embrace. Confused as to why this woman was getting so close to her, Tat tried her best to relax. Breathing in her smell triggered something deep within. Feelings of warmth and safety, unmoored and floating free of any associated recollection. Maria began speaking in a voice thick with emotion, her erudite, British accent cracking at the seams.
“I first met Yurgis when I was a girl, younger than you are now. He was nineteen, a Ukrainian immigrant, living on the streets, stealing to survive. His parents both died of cholera shortly after arriving, you see.” This was the first time she’d ever heard anyone mention her paternal grandparents.
“I grew up rich and spoiled. I never wanted for anything. My parents ran this boarding house, which was a front for the largest thieves guild in the empire. Though my father, Esion, detested the word thief. He saw what he did in a much grander light, preferring the title of Adventurer, or Treasure Hunter. This place was constantly filled with guests from all over the world, as well as regulars who were in the crew.
“In the spring of my sixteenth year, Mother was killed on a job in South America. You see, my parents always worked together, though that’s not the story I’m trying to tell, another time perhaps. Walking back from St. Mary’s where her funeral was held, a filthy scoundrel tried to pick Father’s pocket. You must understand, Esion had nothing but contempt for street thieves, taking great pleasure in turning them over to the authorities. However, when he caught Yurgis attempting to lift his purse, he must have seen something in him, some grand potential, because he took him into our home. Taught him the ways of the guild, and of the Paths of Power…”
Those last words caught Tat’s attention and she took mental note of the emphasis she placed on them.
Maria continued, “Perhaps, with mother dead, he realized that he would never sire a son to carry on his legacy. Whatever the reason, I, being a foolish young girl, fell in love with him. Not straight away, mind you, it took awhile for me to overcome my ingrained class prejudices. As well it took awhile for him to overcome his troubled life growing up on the streets. A little soap and water didn’t hurt either.
“My father was a powerful man, ruthless and unyielding, yet uncorrupted. He grew to love Yurgis as I did, the son he never had, and together we spent many happy years here. We also traveled the world searching for artifacts of ever greater mystery and power. For over ten years we existed thus. Then, on a trip to Egypt, everything changed.”
Here Maria paused and took several deep breaths, as if steeling herself for what was coming next.
“I discovered that I was with child.”
Tat became instantly alert, her heart pounding as adrenaline flooded her system.
“What are you saying?” She asked, stunned.
Again Maria took three deep breaths... “Tatiana, you were that child… I am your mother.”
Chapter Nine:
The Black Rose
“Tatiana, breakfast!”
The strident call pierced through the veil and roused her from her first truly restful sleep in months. She sighed, stretching contentedly, surprised to be alone. Maria must have risen sometime in the night without waking her. The smell of cooking bacon wafted up from the kitchen below. All at once the events of the night before came back to her.
She had a mother…
This revelation had broken her, shattered the thinly veiled barrier of sanity she desperately sought to maintain. Inspired the frenetic outpouring of a lifetime of desperation and longing. The endless parade of guilt and shame kept bottled up inside. At first the tears burned with sadness, but through some bitter alchemy, the saltiness of her tears was transmuted into something almost unbearably sweet…
To her credit, Maria did her best to comfort her, shushing, cooing, kissing her forehead. For the most part she remained strong, though her composure eventually collapsed when expressing the desire that they become a family again. Together they shared those strange, sweet tears, both having regained something thought lost forever, until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, emotionally exhausted.
She folded up the blankets, placing them back on the bed, noticing that Maria had laid out a beautiful blue dress for her to wear. She held it up and shook it out. Knowing nothing about expensive clothing, in her mind it resembled something a woman of noble birth might wear to a summer ball. The faery tale gown of a prisoner princess.
Beside the dress, a scrawled note lay atop a collection of complicated underclothes, full of laces, clips and assorted fasteners she was clueless how to operate. She picked up the note, scanning it distractedly.
My Treasure,
This dress belonged to me when I was a girl, it should be about your size. If you need assistance with the undergarments, I’ll be happy to help you. No self-respecting woman should have to go around naked under her clothes!
Maria... Mother.
A thin smile curled her lip, a terse chuckle escaping her upon reading the final words. She hadn’t laughed in years, and even though the joke wasn’t especially funny, she was feeling generous and cherished any sign of her mother’s personality.
This levity was short lived as her thoughts turned unexpectedly ugly at the prospect of this new life. Puzzled to find that she was dreading the moment when she had to descend the stairs and face the two of them.
Maria wanted them to be a family, but that was impossible. After everything Yurgis had done, she could never forgive him. The idea that Maria could, after he abandoned her, even absconding with their newly born child, gave her serious cause for concern. And then there were Yurgis’ reasons for all this, which she could not divine. Surely he wasn’t interested in settling into a domestic rut.
She shook her head, why was she always so negative? This should be the happiest day of her life. If this was what she’d always wanted, why then did she feel so awful?
Instead of getting dressed, she went to the armoire and retrieved the torn photograph, looking it over carefully. Upon close scrutiny, she noticed a tiny detail she’d missed. Whoever was standing next to Yurgis must’ve had their arm around his back, because there was a hand on his shoulder; a hand that could only belong to a woman…
It stood to reason that Maria would be the missing person from the other half of the picture. She mentioned being in Egypt so that checked out. Furthermore, it seemed natural for new parents to be photographed with their child.
Yet, if Maria was indeed there, then that meant that Dobra had lied to her when he claimed not to have known her mother, why would he do that?
Then it dawned on her, the significance of Dobra’s words.
