Thirteen Crucifixions, 79

“So how did you get here? Stefan asked Leticia.  They were seated in the library looking out the leaded window at the fresh night outside.

            “I don’t know.”  She looked beautiful, her blond hair sweeping well past her shoulders.  She was wearing a loose mid-calf white shift and leather flat-soled sandals.  Her hazel-green eyes had a vacant, sleepy expression.

            “What do you mean you don’t know?”

            “Just what I said.  Cognac?”  She poured from a decanter that was on the table between the chairs.

            “Thanks.”  He held it up to his lips, savouring the delicious, mellow fragrance.

            “How did you get here?”

            “I walked.  Up a trail from the beach.”

            “There’s a beach nearby?”

            “You haven’t seen it?  How did you get on this island?”

            “Island?”

            “We’re on an island.”

            “Oh.  I didn’t know.”  He was trying to fight the delicious weariness he felt taking possession of his body.  He wasn’t sure if he could find his way back to his camp.

            “When did you get here?”

            “When?”

            “What day?”  She paused, staring past the glass in her hand at the dark night and their dim reflections in the glass.  “I don’t know what day. Haven’t I always been here?”

            “No, Leticia, you have not been here always.  I only saw you last month in Vancouver.”

            “What did you just call me?”

            “Leticia.”

            “Le-ticia.  What a beautiful name.  I think I’ll try it for a while.  Leticia.”

            “What happened?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “To you.  What happened?”

            “I don’t know.  Nothing, I suppose. Nothing has happened to me.”

            “How did you get here”. He was losing patience.

            “I didn’t get here.  I have always been here.  And who are you?”

            “Oh Gawd.  Who the fuck do you think I am!”

            “Please, don’t be rude to me.”  She seemed cowed, frightened.

            “I’m Stefan. Remember?  Stefan Murdoch.  You were on my case last year, don’t you remember?  You used every trick in the book to make it impossible for me to get welfare.  Don’t you remember?  Leticia Van Smit?  Welfare Verification Officer?”

            “I-I’m sorry.  I don’t remember any of this.  I’m sorry.  I don’t remember you.”

            “Your name is Leticia, isn’t it?”

            “Well—you say it is.”

            “Is it, or isn’t it?”

            “I don’t know”, she said, beginning to cry.  “I can’t remember.”

            “Are you sure about this?”

            “Yes.”

            “But, why?”

            “It’s time.”

            “How—how can you do this—“

            “You mean how can I do this to you, but, Michael, I am not doing this to you.  I’m doing this because it’s time.”

            “It’s such a beautiful house.”

            “Yes it is, isn’t it?”

            “But there must be a reason.”

            “I’ve been here for forty years.  It’s time for a change.”

            “But Mom—“

            “But Mom what?”

            “This is the only home I’ve ever known.”

            “You’ve lived in other places.”

            “But this is home. What about the others?”

            “Your brother and sister?  I haven’t told them yet.  Look, Michael, it’s been a good house. A good home.  But I really want to move on.”

            “I guess there’s a lot of memories here.”

            “It isn’t just that.”

            “Well, what is it then?”

            “Are you sure you want to know?”

            “I don’t know.  Maybe not.”

            “Wait here.  I want to show you something.”

            Sheila returned with her recent painting of the apple tree.

“That’s awesome.”

            “But look at it. What do you see?”

            “Besides the apple tree?  Let’s see—a snake, a dead bird, a man and a woman—with a sword and chalice.  Yeah, that’s pretty unusual.”

            “Yesterday, Madge was here with her brother-in-law.”

            “Did you show them the painting?”

            “I did after Ed told me what was in it.”

            “He’s that psychic guy?”

            “He’s that psychic guy.  We were sitting out in the back, looking at the tree. Then he got a reading on it. He “saw” and perfectly described all the details of the painting.  He says this tree is from Atlantis, that the couple in the painting are the tree’s guardians.  And that great danger is being brought upon this house because of the tree.  Also, Mrs. De Souza, that old Portuguese widow who lived here before you were born.  Her father built this house.  And the tree is from a parent stock he’d brought over from the Azores, which, as the legend goes, were once part of the greater continent of Atlantis.”

            “And you believe this.  That’s why you’re selling the house?”

            “There’s more.”

            “So tell me.”

            “See the priest in this painting?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’ve been dreaming about him for years.”

            “Get serious.”

            “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

            “Hey, it’s not my mind that’s in the gutter.”

            “Michael, for pity’s sake will you listen to me?  This is serious.”

            "Okay, I’m listening.”

            “I first saw him when I was fourteen, just when your grandfather went missing in Korea.”

            ‘He died, didn’t he?”

            “His body was never found, though they say he was blown to bits.  But that’s when I first saw this boy.  He was on the front porch here with Mrs. De Souza.”

            “And?”

            “That night we learned of his death. Then the following day, Mrs. De Souza had vanished.  All that remained of her was her clothes piled under the apple tree.  I dreamed of this boy a few years later, the day before your father proposed to me.  I dreamed of this boy again, the night you were conceived, and likewise with Suzanne and Jason.  Then, just before your father told us he had AIDS.  Then when Bill proposed to me.  Bill, it turns out, started dreaming about him too.  He never knew that I was having the same dream.  He knew nothing about this boy, and I certainly didn’t let on about anything.  And he told me nothing.  But that was when his psychotic episodes began.  Like when he tried to kill me then attempted to gas himself in his car.”

            “Why are you telling me all this?”

            “I haven’t finished.  I have had two dreams about him in as many months.  The second time, the day I did this painting, he told me to get out of this house while I could, that I’m in danger here.”

            “What kind of danger?”

            “I don’t know.  But Ed seems to believe this as well.  Perhaps that, whatever evil led to the cataclysm that destroyed Atlantis has been brought here with this tree.”

            “There might be an easy solution to this.”

            “What?”

            “Cut down the tree.”

            “It’s the only one of its kind in existence.  And besides, we’d be breaking the law.  It’s now an internationally protected specimen.”

            “So you’re going to sell the house.”

            “Well, I would like to get out of here.”

            “Where would you live?”

            “I’ll probably get a condo. This house has become a prison for me.  It owns me.  I want to be free.”

            “Better call the heritage council.”

            “I did.  This morning.  They’ve been aware of it for some time.  They think there’s a good chance of preserving it.”

            “This would make an awesome bed and breakfast.”

            “Maybe.  Maybe not.  Do you know what you’re going to do?”

            “I’m returning to the island tomorrow.  Glen’s coming with me.”

            “So you want to stay there for a while?”

            “Maybe for a long while.  It seems to be working.”

            “In what way?”

            “I’ve discovered silence.”

            “Oh?”

            “Like in the ‘Cloud of Unknowing’.  You’re right.  It is very powerful.”

            “And Glen?”

            “He wants to check it out for a couple of weeks, anyway. Would you like to come?”

            “I would, actually.”

            “Hey, the sun’s out.”

            It had stopped raining.  Sheila and Michael stood together on the back porch, staring out into the brilliant summer evening as the sun hitting the wet foliage and grass transfigured the garden into an incandescent wonder.  The robins were singing, the air was fresh, washed and cleansed.  The apple tree, now a green mass with neither blossoms or ripe fruit, grew there as it had been growing for over a hundred years, a very old and very ordinary looking tree.  Sheila couldn’t imagine how she could have fancied a serpent coiled in its branches.  All it was, and all it ever could be, just now, was a very ordinary and rather pretty looking tree.  She hoped for yet one final good yield of fruit from its branches.  She followed her son back into the house, and put on the kettle for tea.

            Stefan couldn’t find the trail.  Anywhere.  The mansion was surrounded by impregnable bush.  He couldn’t understand how he could have got here.  There was a trail.  He knew this.  It was somewhere.  This would be his fourth search today.  It was getting dark.  There was no way he’d be making it back to the beach yet.  At least Leticia Van Smit didn’t seem to mind him being here.  There was lots of food in the kitchen.  He found her passivity, her apparent amnesia very unsettling.  Equally unsettling was this house.  Magnificent, well appointed and apparently well maintained.  The grounds were flawless.  The rooms immaculately furnished.  He had claimed himself a garret bedroom with a dormer window.  There was no evidence of anyone else present.  He had spent the greater part of the day with Leticia, trying to jog her memory.  She appeared completely oblivious—knowing neither her name, nor anything about her life before coming here. And she insisted that she had never lived anywhere but here. Stefan had searched the entire house for anything resembling a phone.  There was nothing.  He had no idea how to get outside help.  He was, though wouldn’t admit it, frightened.

            Whoever had stocked the kitchen had been very thorough and meticulous.  There were two enormous walk-in freezers stuffed with every kind of food imaginable, as there were cupboards, shelves, closets and pantries crammed with tinned, dried and packaged food.  They would both be able to survive here comfortably for years if they had to.  If they were still here next year, they could have a garden.  He had discovered several packages of seeds this evening.  What he really wanted to know was simply this: why?  What was this house doing here?  Who built it, who maintained it? And for what purpose?

            Leticia was sitting on the edge of the fountain, reading a book.  He joined her on the edge of the basin, allowing enough space between them to comfortably accommodate two obese children.  She didn’t appear to notice him at first.  He dipped his hand in the water.

            “Don’t”, she said, without looking up.

            “Don’t what?”

            “You were going to drink that water.  I wouldn’t if I were you.”

            “Is it contaminated?”

            “My most distant memory, I realize now, was drinking that water.  Whatever is in it, I think, made me lose my memory.”

            “You’re sure about this?”

            “I don’t know.  But while you’re here you’d be wise not to take unnecessary risks.

            “What are you reading?”

            “Plato’s Republic.”

            “Sounds intense.”

            “Intriguing rather.  He believed that poets and artists ought to be banned from his ideal society.

            “What a moron.”

            “It’s a very interesting book.  Where were you just now?”

            “I was looking for the trail.”

            “You’re not going to find it.  They want you here.”

            “They?”

            “Didn’t I tell you?  We’re not alone here.”

            “Who else is here?”

            “An old couple. Nice.”

            “So this is their place?”

            “No.  They’ve only lived here a long time.”

            “How long?”

            “They don’t seem to know.  They have no memory beyond this house.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

            “I didn’t think to.”

            “Where are they?”

            “Away at some conference or other.”

            “Where?”

            “They didn’t say.”

            “Well, when are they coming back?”

            “I don’t know.  They didn’t say.”

            “What do they do here?”

            “As far as I can tell they take care of the place.  They’re taking care of me.”

            “But, who are they?”

            “I don’t know.  I don’t even know their names.”

            “That is so fucking bizarre, man.”

            “Is it?  I never thought of that.  I suppose it is.”

            “What’ll they do when they find me here?”

            “Oh, they’ve been expecting you.”

            “No way.”

            “Before they left they said you’d be coming.  They described you and everything.”

            “But, how could they have known?”

            “They know.”

            “Were they expecting you?”

            “That’s what they told me anyway.”  She got up.  “It’s getting chilly. I’m going inside.”

            She walked away fast, swinging the book in her hand.  Soon she was running.  When he heard the door slam shut Stefan looked in the pool at his inverted reflection,  then at the bat-winged gargoyle with water streaming from its gaping mouth.  He imagined that he’d be turning in soon.  It was already getting dark.  And, since Letitia retired early, there was nothing to stay up for.  There was no television in this house, neither a stereo nor radio.  Neither had he seen any computers.  He had never been immersed in so completely silent an environment.  Were it not for the blessing of sleep he might find it intolerable.  Leticia had recommended that he explore the library.  Stefan had never been one much for reading.  And none of the classic tomes here of literature, philosophy, mythology, and such esoteric studies as he’d never guessed might have existed seemed much to his liking.  He could stare at the gargoyle for only so long.  It was creeping him out, which was odd, since he’d always found things gothic to be the ultimate in cool.  He was suddenly and savagely longing for Melissa.