Dark Dreams, Pale Horses Read online

  I shook my head and more tears cascaded onto my cheeks, far too many to catch in a handkerchief. “Oh, my dear girl,” I said. “You do not understand.”

  She stopped the car. It made a disagreeable grunting sound and bounced on its springs. “What’s the matter, Abigail?”

  I looked out the window. “It’s gone,” I said, and repeated it, but in a whisper.

  “What’s gone?” she asked. “The house?”

  I nodded. “Wickington Manor. The gardens. The aviary. A place of laughter and happiness and magic and so many wonderful memories. And now it’s gone, my dear, pulled to the ground and replaced with these…these ghastly little houses. It’s so terribly sad.”

  “A manor house?” Geraldine asked. “And you used to come here as a child?”

  I nodded. My wet handkerchief left thick trails on my face.

  “And you’re sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Of course.”

  “But, Abigail…these terraces must be a hundred years old.”

  “No,” I said. A worthless word, like a diminutive object falling into a vast space. As if I could make it bigger, more important, I said it again. “No…no.”

  We drove around the houses, but I could barely look at them. Their ugly brickwork. Their bland, square gardens. My tear-flashed eyes tracked to the south, where my uncle’s land had given way to the woods. Our hollowed oak used to be there, and the silver river where we used to try to catch trout with our bare hands. And, of course, Foxglove Fields, our spray of wild purple, our favourite place. All gone now. Removed from the world. Even the air was different, and after my heart had dropped as low as it could go, I inclined my head and looked at the sky through the small window. Overcast. Textures of grey and white. An unimaginative sky. I wished that Lily were with me—that she would move the heavy curtain of cloud and present that eternal, polished blue. I wanted to feel the sun warm my skin. I wanted to shield my eyes as it flared across the windscreen.

  Everything I had known was gone.

  But even so, as we bumped along the narrow lanes between terraces, I achieved a sense of place. I could feel it deep inside. A knowledge that I had been there before. A young girl with the sun in her hair. We drove amongst the places where I played, skipping hand-in-hand with Lily. We idled, for a moment, where the aviary had been. And I heard the birdsong. Peaceful, exotic conversation. Not heard with my ears, but with my heart. We passed through the ghost of the manor itself…through my uncle’s drawing-room, where I could smell traces of his ever-burning pipe…through the kitchens and the parlour and, of course, the great hall, where I first saw Lillian Bliss, and where I sensed her ghost twirling still, fading in and out.

  “I’m coming, Lily,” I said.

  Geraldine slowed her automobile and looked at me. “Did you say something, Abigail?”

  I shook my head. The emotion exhausted my body. I felt suddenly very tired.

  “Let’s get you home,” she said.

  We came to the end of a terrace and I caught movement from the corner of my eye. I turned to see a sparrow circle spritely in the sky before landing on a gatepost. It chirruped and hopped. Its bright little eyes seemed fixed on mine. For all my used emotion, my heart jumped still. I gasped and pressed my handkerchief to my lips. As Geraldine began to pull away, I looked at the front of the gate on which the sparrow perched. The name of the house was painted on a decorated plate.

  “Stop,” I said.

  The brakes whined. The engine clattered. “What is it?”

  “There.” I pointed at the gate. “The name of that house.”

  Geraldine looked and read the nameplate.

  “Foxgloves,” she said, and I smiled.

  The petals had lost their intense colour. Some were still purple, but most were pink or white or a dull, washed blue. They seemed sadder than ever, and would flake away from the stem with the merest breeze.

  It was the end of summer, and the ghost of Lillian Bliss stood amongst the foxgloves. She smiled. Her auburn hair caught the sun like a mirror.

  “It’s time to go home,” I said. I tried to be brave but could feel the tears welling behind my eyes. They would come. I would cry all the way home. I always did.

  “Yes,” she said. “Time to fly away.”

  “I shall miss you, Lady Bliss.”

  She nodded, still smiling, held out her hands, and I took them. Not cold, as you might expect. Touching Lily was like…it was like touching a memory. Something you felt, and experienced. Something real. The birds, in the aviary, were in heartfelt voice. The rousing finale of their opera. Insects ticked and flicked amongst the long grass and flower stems. I held Lily’s hands. She was always smiling.

  Three weeks had passed since we healed our sparrow and watched him fly away. Something Lily had said at the time recurred to me.

  “You said that all things fly away.” The first of many tears moved down my face. I imagined them grabbing the sunlight, like Lily’s hair. “You said that I would, too, but as though I would never come back. As though I would fly away forever.”

  “Yes,” she said. She squeezed my hands.

  “Oh, Lily, but you know I’ll be back next year.”

  She never looked away from me. She never stopped smiling. “Not next year, dear Abigail. Nor the year after. I’m afraid that we’ll not see each other for a great many years.”

  “No,” I said. She was wrong, I was sure of it. “Why would you say that, Lily?”

  “It will all change,” she started. “You are growing into a fine young lady, Abigail. So full of promise, and beautiful things are waiting for you.”

  I shook my head. The coals of my emotion burned brightly. I imagined my tears like fire, spilling from the furnace of my soul. Lily was my friend. Without her…nothing. I would be a girl like any other. She was my purpose under heaven. My light in the darkness.

  “Don’t say that.” My words felt as fragile as…a broken wing. They dragged along the ground, needing to be healed.

  “Your uncle will become ill, my dear,” she continued, and I noticed her lips twitching. Still a smile, albeit sad. “His convalescence will be long and demanding, and throughout that time you will grow and change. And yes, I’ll still be in your mind. I’ll always be there. But you will be in a different light: a strong, assured woman, and your life will not allow for the frivolities of youth. You will have moved on. But one day, dear Abigail, you will return, and I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting.”

  I shook my head again, but knew that she was right. Lily would be a little girl forever, whereas I was growing older. Would I stop believing in her? Would I be able to see her, even? How strange, a woman in the bloom of her life with children of her own, talking to pretty little ghosts, standing hand-in-hand amongst the foxgloves.

  Of course it would change.

  My tears burned and fell. My breast hitched. Short, hard sobs were snatched from my lungs. I squeezed her hands tighter, feeling the impulse to pull her light body into mine and take her away forever.

  The birds voiced their upset. Spiralling loops of song. The riffle of their wings as they burst from perch to perch. Beneath them, barely audible, I could hear my uncle calling my name.

  “Time to go,” Lily said.

  Again I shook my head, wanting so desperately to deny it. I think, at that moment, I could have stayed there forever, never moving, growing old as the foxgloves cycled through the seasons, looking always upon Lily’s infinite smile. Instead I scooped her into my arms and pulled her to my breast. My tears fell on her hair, as bright as the sunshine.

  “I shall miss you, Lady Bliss,” I said again.

  She kissed me tenderly and said, “I’ll be waiting.”

  It was a hard walk from Foxglove Fields. Only twenty-or-so steps, but each one was heavy, as though the atmosphere were suddenly filled with damp, invisible drapes. I stopped at the perimeter and turned back. Lily waved. I could see the trees through her small body. The foxgloves through her legs. There wer
e tears trickling down her cheeks, but she was still smiling.

  “Fly away,” she said, and I did, and I haven’t seen her since.

  I touch the walls. They are real. I am here. My window looks out on the gardens, beautiful in the summer, but now, on the cusp of winter, everything is brown and grey. I sit in my chair and remember the flowers I have planted. My own personal garden, amazing with colour.

  Lily was right, of course. My uncle suffered a long illness, and I never returned to Wickington, although it—and Lily—remained always in my thoughts. I swore to return as soon as I was able, but by then I was occupied with planting flowers, surrounding myself with colour. I grew into a strong woman. Life happened, and it was dazzling.

  Now, life is unhappening. This seems a vulgar way to put it, but a more accurate phrase is quite beyond me. I can feel the ends coming loose and the seams weakening. It will soon be undone, and I will be there, turning in my meadow, a place of happiness and colour, without walls. No matter how far I reach, the walls will be gone.

  Sparrows chasing through the polished sky. The silver river chattering over small stones. The aviary alive with opera. Wickington Manor looking handsome and regal in the distance.

  Foxglove Fields.

  My precious friend, with her boundless energy, her hands held out to me, so like the little girl I used to be. And I will go to her, and hold her hands, and that’s where I’ll stay.

  The petals will be full and purple, and they will never fall.

  “Welcome to your garden,” she will say.

  Our smiles will be eternal.

  She is my light in the darkness.

  Her name is Lady Bliss.

  CHRYSALIS

  DIECE

  Imagine the world as a diseased heart. A pale shape hanging in the substance of time, tumbling on its axis: a distorted sphere, like a swollen eye. The grey flesh of the ocean rages, unimaginable depths swirling with muscular movement. Contaminated waves break against the earth’s skeleton, delivering scores of the dead. The forests are broken toys. They lie in pieces, slick with rainfall. There is no breath and no colour, only reflection.

  The cities are confetti—fragments of black tissue scattered by the winds. Nothing is recognizable. It has all been reduced to the point where it ceases to be. Brick, concrete, and glass…all dust, sculpted into star dunes by æolian hands. The steel framework of once-impressive towers hangs like apologies, making awkward shapes against the bruised sky. They might be letters or symbols: the world’s final script, to be deciphered in a billion years, like constellations.

  The air is crystallized. You can swing your fists and shatter molecules of carbon dioxide and oxygen. It never stops raining. The sun is a myth. Mankind—what precious amount remains—has scrambled to the mountains, where it clings to existence with bleeding hands. The rock face is tattooed with pain, but there is, at least, some green: beech trees preserved in ice. The dilated pupil of a paralyzed world.

  NOVE

  The child died at Memorare—known in the foreworld as dusk: that time when God dialled the earth into darkness. Without the sun, there were no hours or minutes, only shades of grey named after the prayers recited during that time.

  Angelo cradled the small body and walked through the Passage: a room stretched like the backbone of some ancient creature, with a cot in every vertebra, in which the children slept and prayed, growing little, breathing hard, before transition. Will I see God’s Hands? They would often ask, and Angelo would smile. God’s Hands and God’s Light. Most would pass peacefully. Angelo sometimes believed he could see the sun in their eyes.

  This child…ageless and nameless, little more than a feather. Angelo wondered if he could cast the body from the mountain and watch it sway on frigid thermals, to spiral to the brittle air thousands of feet below. Several children watched as he passed, whispering respects. It was like walking between sentences; words on either side, creating image. One girl was kneeling at the end of her cot: Farfalla (unusual for any child to have a name; her beauty insisted). Her eyes were amazing circles, drawn by some careful hand. Her voice was as soft as her skin.

  “Dies iræ, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favilla …”

  Angelo passed through the Passage, taking with him glimpses of prayer, gathering them like flowers. He stepped outside, where the world was hurting. Pizzo di Sevo loomed, the earth’s shoulder, bearing weight. It was once described with verdant colour, punctuated with anemone. Now it was a scene of cramped dwellings, where survivors, wrapped in alpaca wools, harvested nutrients from the ether. Their numbers were diminishing. Few children were born healthy. The Passage was always full.

  “And you will see God’s Hands,” Angelo said, speaking not to the body in his arms, but to the world stretched before him. He shuffled amongst the dwellings and came upon the Light, wherein he made the Sign of the Cross, and cast the sleeping child to the pyre.

  OTTO

  Farfalla stirred as Angelo passed her cot. She sat up and wiped her eyes. Angelo could see that she had been weeping.

  “Oh, Cugino,” she said. “I feel so sad for that boy.”

  “But, Farfalla, he is with God now. He is playing in the sun.”

  “No,” Farfalla said. She lay down on her cot and wiped her eyes again. “I saw him in your arms. He hadn’t grown his wings.”

  SETTE

  My name is Angelo di Serafino, and I am the Shepherd of Souls. See the city through my eyes: a shanty in the mountains; a geometry of survival. Ugly. Warped by rain and rust. Home to thousands. We call it Il Margine della Salvezza. The Edge of Salvation.

  It is a breeding ground for angels. The adult-dead are carried several kilometres northwest and thrown into the Cold Valley. The trek is worn by the shape of feet; the Cold Valley is swollen. The rain falls onto the bodies. They rot and shift. Sometimes the Valley seems to move, like a restless leg, or a drip of paint. The living—when they are not praying or copulating—face the burden of survival. We have spring water; we farm alpacas for wool, milk, and meat. We exist…barely.

  The sick children are brought to me. The Passage provides warmth and prayer. I walk amongst the myriad cots, stroking their faces, easing their pain. I take them, when they pass, to the Light: Il Crematorio. My name, in English, means The Angel of Fire.

  My poor heart will not allow attachment to the children. Better I throw myself from the mountain. I rarely give them names, and never tell them mine. They call me Cugino, which means cousin. It is as close as I can get.

  Oh, Farfalla…the only one to touch my soul. Why do I think of you when I never think of the others? Is it the shape of your eyes, or the way your hair falls in dark twists to your shoulders? Is it the tenderness in your every word, for one so young, and who has known only pain? Is it your boundless innocence? I saw him in your arms. He hadn’t grown his wings. Do you think, Farfalla, that we become butterflies when we pass, and flutter with splendid colour into God’s Light?

  I am a strong man. I have to be. But I fear that when Farfalla passes my brittle heart will weep forever.

  SEI

  “Cugino, what happened to the world?”

  She had finished her prayers, looked up, and noticed Angelo staring at her. He hesitated, and then came to her. Farfalla held out her hand and smiled. Her skin glowed in the candlelight. He could see tiny crescent-shaped impressions in the backs of her hands, made by her fingernails while praying.

  Angelo took her hand, so warm and small. He curled his fingers around it and her eyes opened to him, like some flower of the foreworld turning to the sun. She had smiled and asked her question.

  “The world?” Angelo said. He could feel the life in her fingers. It was like holding a promise, something real and agitated, and that might be lost forever if you were fool enough to let go. “Neglect weakened the world; greed crippled it; war destroyed it. Well…I say destroy, but the world is still here, and always will be. But all life is transient, and mankind, I fear, has had its moment. Our achievements have been su
bmerged by the oceans, or blown to dust. God made us in His image, and now He has called upon us to walk beside Him.”

  “Or fly beside Him,” Farfalla said. She brushed strands of hair from her pale brow. “You are so old, Cugino, and so wise.”

  “Old?” Angelo said. He nodded. “Yes, I am—one of the oldest on the mountain. If there were a sun I could tell you my age. I think, in the foreworld, I would be close to twenty-three years old.”

  Farfalla only looked at him; the number meant nothing to her.

  “Never mind,” Angelo said. “You are tired. You should be sleeping.”

  Farfalla lay back on her cot. Angelo let go of her hand and pulled the sheet up to her chin. She smiled at him. “There is a sun, Cugino. It is above the clouds. One day you will grow your wings and see it.”

  “Yes, Farfalla. One day.” And Angelo did something he had never done before. He kissed the child, feeling everything in his heart let go, and then hurried away before she could see the tears in his eyes.

  CINQUE

  Imagine the world as a painting: some abstract class of art, created only in shades of black and grey. Imagine, now, a single drop of paint falling from the Artist’s brush. And in this drop there are a thousand colours: gems and petals and rainbows; the feathers of some exotic bird; the colour of your lover’s eyes; a reef in paradise. See it fall, this wonder, and splash upon the bleak canvas.

  Now look at the whole and tell me…to what is the eye drawn?

  QUATTRO

  “Padre Nostro, che sei nei cielli …”

  Angelo di Serafino sat outside the Passage, praying loud enough to envelop the sounds of the mountain. His hands trembled. His wet eyes regarded the wastes before him, where once, before he was born, Lago di Scandarello had glimmered in incomprehensible sunlight. Now there were blasts of rock and ice, like the surface of some other planet.