My Heart Laid Bare (9 page)

As Mr. Licht had instructed his children, it was always wisest to say
How would Father deal with this?
—not
How should I deal with this?
—when they were faced with difficult situations.

But how would Father deal with
this
?—Christopher, or Thurston, asked himself, as his unwanted brother Harwood prowled about the luxurious room, sniffing doglike at vases of Mrs. Peck's favorite flowers, pearl-pink roses; picking up items (a cashmere net scarf of Mrs. Peck's, from
India) as if to appraise them, and tossing them down; repeating, like a demented parrot, that he needed money, he needed cash, wasn't going to leave until he got cash, he knew that the “wealthy old whore what's-her-name—‘Peek?' ‘Poke?' ‘Pig?'”—gave Thurston money, for certain she gave him presents,
and he wanted his share.

Had Thurston, or Christopher, happened to have seen his brother on the street in Atlantic City, he would probably not have recognized him at first: the stocky young man hadn't shaved in days, and seemed to have suffered a beating—his upper lip was swollen, and his left eye luridly discolored. He was wearing a soiled golfing cap Thurston had never seen before, and a rumpled navy blue gabardine suit that fitted his muscular shoulders tightly; his white shirt, poorly laundered, was open at the throat, and missing a button. It was clear too that he'd been drinking.

Of the Licht children, Harwood had long been acknowledged as the least gracious, the least talented and, certainly, the least attractive: he had a face (as Mr. Licht had once half-admiringly observed) like the blunt edge of an ax; and small close-set suspicious eyes of no discernible color, moistly alert as the eyes of a large predator frog. Harwood had grown rapidly and prodigiously until the age of twelve, but then ceased to grow; he was now several inches shorter than his handsome blond brother, squat-bodied, rather clumsy, yet, if it came to a fight, Thurston knew from past experience that the wily Harwood would win: his tactics were improvised, wild, manic and lawless, no blow to the kidney, groin or throat, no gouging, or biting, or stranglehold forbidden.
The law of the beast
was Harwood's unarticulated law. The last time the brothers had fought, at an edge of the Muirkirk swamp, Thurston had been able to save himself only by holding his brother's head under water . . . until, after what seemed like a very long time, Harwood's steel-like fingers relaxed their death-grip around Thurston's throat.

Now Thurston relented. “All right, I'll meet you somewhere tonight. But, damn you, you must get out of here now.”

“Bloody hell will I ‘get out of here,'” Harwood said loudly, his hands on his hips, “—you think I'm a bellboy, to take orders from
you
?”

So, fatally, it continued. Harwood, drunk and blustering, making his demands; Thurston, trying to placate him; the brothers' voices more reckless, louder; until they were shouting, and the heavy gilt-framed mirrors on the walls began to tremble. It was a curiosity of the episode, as both would recall afterward, that neither dared to so much as touch the other's sleeve . . . for fear of the murderous violence that might ensue.

And, in the adjacent room, Eloise Peck stood rooted to the spot, listening.

It was unfortunate for all that Mrs. Peck lacked the cunning, or the simple presence of mind, to flee such a humiliating scene at once; to summon help from the hotel management, or to seek out her Filipino maid, that she might run for help.

And that the deluded woman lacked the wit (being, perhaps, as madly in love as she was habituated to claiming) to perceive that “Christopher Schoenlicht” did not exist; still less that, had he existed, he would not be
hers.

Instead of acting with caution, however, as she would have done in her former respectable life, Mrs. Peck sobbed aloud, like a heroine in a Broadway melodrama, “I am betrayed—he does not love me,” and in a paroxysm of wounded pride flung open the door between the rooms to dramatically reveal herself; and rushed inside with a choked cry that “Christopher”—“my Christopher”—had deceived her. In a wild voice she ordered her fiancé and his brute brother (for even in her agitation it was self-evident to her that the two young men, for all their differences, were kin) out of the suite at once.

“Or I'll call the police!
The police!
”

Eloise Peck's indignation, hurt, female fury were surely sincere, like
her hot gushing tears, yet even as she threw herself at her terrified fiancé, to rake his handsome face with her nails, she might have had the idea that this lurid event was but a “scene” of some kind; and that, like any glamorous heroine, she would be protected from actual harm. For hadn't that been her experience through life, as a child, a young girl, a married woman? And didn't such flamboyant emotion carry with it its own sanction?

So it was a total surprise that Christopher, who had always seemed so sweet-tempered, and so devoted a lover, should defend himself roughly against her attack; gripping her wrists hard, and telling her to be still—“Mrs. Peck, shut your mouth.”

It was more of a surprise that Christopher's churlish brother, face swollen and discolored, narrowed eyes glistening like acid, should turn upon her a look of sheer loathing . . . in which no particle of sympathy, or respect, or alarm for her threats could be discerned; and that, with no more than a moment's hesitation, and silently, he should wrench her from his brother, and press his hard gritty hand against her mouth to stifle her screams—“You heard him, lady.
Shut your mouth.
”

So they struggled. Mrs. Peck and the brute Harwood Licht. A table was overturned, a porcelain lamp smashed, the crystal chandelier swaying, the very walls swaying, a ruffian's hand pressed so tight against her face, she was in danger of suffocating. Why, was he murdering her?—the beast murdering her?—as, frenzied as a wildcat, she jabbed at her assailant with her elbows, tried to claw his face, butted at his head with her own.

How degrading!—how preposterous! Eloise Peck, only partly dressed, hair disheveled, rouge with its subtle silver base streaking her teary cheeks, grappling with a stranger who threatened, dear God,
to wring her neck!
—while Christopher, sweet Christopher, her Christopher whom she had loved with such passion, tried to wrench him away, crying in a child's voice, “Harwood, no. Harwood. Harwood.
No.
”

But within five seconds Mrs. Peck's neck was snapped: she was to die, within minutes, an excruciatingly painful death.

The woman fell heavily to the floor, her silky emerald-green dressing gown undone, revealing a soft, flaccid skin of the hue of curdled cream. For several seconds there was silence except for the brothers' labored breathing and, in a room close by, a sound of—weeping?—laughter?—childish high-pitched prattle?

Harwood's blood-threaded eyes snatched in panic at Thurston's; but before he could speak, Thurston said simply, in a voice of infinite resignation and contempt:
“Dogs.”

While Harwood moves about the room plundering what he can find that can be shoved into his pockets, daring even to venture into the adjoining boudoir in search of cash, Thurston, once “Christopher Schoenlicht,” kneels beside the dead woman, staring.

Thurston whispers, “ . . . This hasn't happened.”

Thurston whispers, a sob in his throat, “ . . . This can't have happened.”

Harwood returns, impatient, panting, giving off a rank ripe fleshy odor of animal excitement; carelessly stuffing jewelry (a pearl necklace, a sapphire-and-diamond choker, a handful of rings) into his pockets, and pawing through a wad of bills . . . twenties, fifties, even several one-hundred-dollar bills.

Thurston doesn't respond as Harwood slaps him in the arm, tells him they must leave, must leave the hotel separately, by different doors, the woman is dead and isn't going to come back to life . . . .

Thurston says slowly, “Harwood. You
didn't
do this.”

Harwood says quickly, “Did you?”

Harwood has cunningly dusted his face with the deceased woman's face powder, a peachy-beige hue, but has neglected to powder his neck, which is none too clean; he's grimacing to himself, grinning and frowning
and muttering and licking his lips compulsively; dying for a drink; hastily knotting a silk paisley ascot tie (belonging to “Christopher Schoenlicht”) around his neck; though completely sober now he sways like a drunken man, perceives that the walls of the room are a-tilt, laughs and, as he backs toward the door, tosses a handful of bills at his brother. Harwood's moist eyes glisten in panic that is also a kind of wisdom, for he knows that at last he has crossed over: he has committed a murder.

And what ecstasy in it, he'd never guessed: the need
to flee for his life.

. . .
THE PLACE THAT
is haunted, the place that smells of sweetness and rot, the place where the marsh gas bubbles, the spider-trees lift themselves on their roots, the talons, the teeth, the shrieks, the rippling tawny snakes, the mayflies that brush against your face, the soft black wood teeming with ants, the eating, the gorging, the hollow trees gray with excrement, if you wander too far you will be sucked down, if you wander too far you will be drowned, your life will be sucked from you, do you think your breath is your own, do you think you can find your way back, don't listen to the singing, the voices, her voice, the shriek of the owl, the cry of the hare, the mayflies' droning, it is not singing but the voice of the woman at the bottom of the swamp, you must not heed her, you must not go to her, Katrina forbids it.

. . .
THE PLACE OF
summer heat rising in waves, the stink of scummy green water, the puddles rich with Death, the wings and glittering eyes darting through the air, the place that has lured in children who have never returned, their bones ground down fine, their bright shining hair adrift in the marsh, their eyes sewn into the hides of snakes, their teeth given to the baby weasels, the baby foxes, that music? it is not music, it is the cries of the children, it is their souls caught in the roots of trees, in the roots of the lilies, in the soft black muck, waiting, waiting for you, waiting for you to drown, you must not heed their cries, you must not go to them, Katrina forbids it.

. . .
THE PLACE WHERE
sunlight ages and withers to Night, the place where the trees are Night, beneath the sticky wet leaves there is Night, inside the silky cobwebs there is Night, the vines covered in babies' hair, the grasses, the whispering, the pondweed, the rain pelting like gunshot, the rising mists, the woman who walks in the mists, the woman who brushes her long hair in the mists, it is a tall white lily, it is a tall white poison lily, it is the Night brushing its hair, it is the Night singing, Katrina forbids you to listen, it is the place of pestilence, it is the place of lost children, the flies will cover your eyes if you go, the flies will fill your mouth and crawl up your nostrils and eat out your skull if you go, Katrina knows, Katrina has seen the doe gutted of her baby, the torn belly, the grass trampled in blood, Katrina has heard the cries of the children, Katrina knows the woman's trickery, Katrina knows.

. . .
THE PLACE OF
hunger, the place of feeding, the place of quick-jabbing beaks, the talons, the sticky tendrils, the tiny sucking mouths, the mosquitoes ruby-bright with blood, the leeches swollen with blood, the gassy bubbles, the rot, the stench, the pale brown speckled eggs smashed and
licked clean, the fruit you must not eat, the delicious black fruit you must not eat, if you bite into it the hot black juice will burn your mouth, if you swallow it your throat will close, do you hear the sound of drinking, do you hear the sound of lapping, it is the sound of terrible thirst, it is the sound of shame, you can't see its shape in the dark, you can't see her yellow eyes, her hair is twining in the trees, her feet have turned to roots, her song is hunger, her song is Night, do not listen, she has no name, it is only the steaming rain, the heavy pelting rain, the rain that turns to ice as it falls, Katrina has warned you.

. . .
THE PLACE OF
fat green leaves, of slugs, puddles teeming with Death, tiny white worms, tiny white eyes, the place of yellow iris, Muirkirk violets, the hot rich smell of green, the dappled backs of snakes, do you think your breath is your own, do you think your thoughts are your own, the woman at the bottom of the pond is listening, that is the sound of her sorrow, that is the sound of Night, the larvae eating the leaves, the white cocoons being spun in secret, do you hear the soldiers' shouts, the soldiers' laughter, the gunfire, the screams, the flapping wings, the wild darting eyes, the bones sifting to ash, falling from the sky to melt in the swamp, to turn to vapor in the swamp, her voice is muffled in snow, her blood has frozen white, Katrina knows.

. . .
THE PLACE OF
your father's blessing, the place that will be your father's grave, the teeming water in which he secretly bathes, the bubbling laughter that runs down his chin, the grasses, the sickle moon floating in the marsh, the cries of summer insects, whose name? whose name? it is not your name, it is not your music, it is Night, it is Death, it is the sound of the woman in the mist, her hair twining in the trees, her feet tangled in the roots, it is the sound of the woman at the bottom of the swamp,
you must not heed her, you must not go to her, Katrina loves you and Katrina forbids it.

Esopus, the lost village.

Settled in 1642 on the curve of the river where Muirkirk now stands. A small Dutch outpost of approximately seventy-five men and women who made their way upriver, from the more populous settlements south of the Chautauquas. According to one Claes van Hasbroeck, who kept a personal daybook, in addition to filing systematic and meticulous reports for the Dutch West India Company through the 1640's, when agents for the Company explored the area of Tahawaus Pass, above the great Nautauga River, it was discovered in 1647 that the little settlement of Esopus no longer existed. All traces of it had vanished from the river's bank: no houses, or farming plots, or human artifacts,
or even any graves,
were to be found. The wilderness had not entirely grown back, a clearing of sorts remained, though overrun with vegetation at its edges.

In his daybook Claes van Hasbroeck asks eloquently what had become of the brave settlers of Esopus: had they been killed by Indians, or sickness, or a bitterly cold winter; had they been frightened away into the wilderness to die; had their God simply abandoned them in this remote spot? But why did no human artifacts remain, no sign of human habitation?

So it happened that Esopus vanished; and vanished yet a second time in memory; for this was the heady era in which Dutch adventurers were intrigued by the prospect of “prodigious” and “fathomless” copper mines in the more southerly part of New Netherlands; and Esopus was soon forgotten, a mere notation, a curiosity in the historical records of the time.

ROBIN, THE MILLER'S
youngest son,
was treated cruelly by his father, and mocked by his three older brothers, and, as his mother had died, and there
was no one to love him for his quiet ways, he said to himself, I will leave home and live alone in the marsh. And off he went afoot to the edge of the marsh, and for an hour or more pondered how to proceed; for many a luckless wanderer had died in this place, lured by the beauty of the smooth waters, and the swamp flowers, and the great trees, and the shimmering birds and butterflies that dwelled there. Until finally a snowy white bird approached, of the size of a swan, yet possessed of long legs and a long sharp beak, and the bird asked of him where he meant to go, and Robin told him, and the bird flew off to lead him to firm ground, by which he could hurry across, into the depths of the marsh; and he was cunning enough to disguise his path behind him, so that no one could follow to bring him back home.

For three days and three nights he wandered in the marsh, seeing many wondrous sights, and, on the fourth day, he saw an old woman walking in the mist, with white hair, and white skin, and white lace on her head; and carrying in her hand a tall white candle. To Robin the old woman was young and beautiful, so he followed without hesitation when she led him to her home in the marsh, to give him food and shelter. The old woman said, Am I to be your bride, dear Robin? and Robin answered at once, Am I to be your bridegroom? for he had fallen in love, and took no note of her strange hooded eyes, and long curving fingernails, and fine-wrinkled skin like the striations on ice; nor did he see that her dwelling place at the heart of the marsh was dank and cold, for to him it was warm, with a glowing fire, and polished floorboards, and smelled of rich heated broth. So it was, Robin the miller's son became the old woman's husband, and wanted never to leave her side.

One day it happened that his brothers sought him out, for his father was old and ailing, and wanted his youngest son by his side. Like Robin they were perplexed as to how to enter the marsh, for they knew of the many wanderers who had died there; until the great white bird flew to them, and asked of them whom they sought, and did they mean harm,
and the brothers said only that they sought their dear brother Robin, and meant no harm. So the bird spread his wide wings and led them to the place where Robin had crossed over, and which he had so cunningly disguised. And like Robin they wandered for three days and three nights, and on the fourth day they came upon the old woman's dwelling-place at the very heart of the marsh; and saw to their astonishment that their brother was the loving husband of an old woman, known as the White Witch of the Marsh. How is it possible, they asked, that Robin has wed her, and that he sleeps by the fireside oblivious of her evil?

As there was no way to break the enchantment save to kill the witch, Robin's brothers rushed into the house, and fell upon her at once, with no warning; striking her to the heart with their sharp knives, and killing her; and rousing poor Robin from his slumber. He struggled with them as if they were enemies, crying, Why have you killed my young bride?—for there is no one so beautiful in all the land. His brothers overcame him, and threw him down; and explained that the White Witch of the Marsh was not young and beautiful as he believed, but an old wicked woman. In scorn they showed him her corpse that he might see her white hair, and her white wrinkled skin, and the talons that grew from her fingers; yet Robin in his enchantment continued to lament the loss of his bride; and begged his brothers that they strike him to the heart as well.

Against his will, and in great sorrow, Robin was brought out of the marsh by his brothers, and restored at last to his father, who was lying on his deathbed. Seeing how he had wronged his youngest son, the miller gave him his blessing, and instructed him that the mill was henceforth to be his, and his brothers merely his assistants; and that there was a young maiden who lived close by, whom he should marry within a year. These matters Robin complied with, as his soul was shrouded in mourning, and he cared not what the remainder of his life must be.

Though Robin's bride was fair, she never conceived a child; and Robin the miller was known through the Valley for the iciness of his touch,
and the frost-glitter of his skin, and the fact that, despite the modest riches he accumulated, he had no care for worldly matters, nor any wishes, it seemed, of his own.

ONCE, LONG AGO,
in Old Muirkirk, in the last years of English rule, the Crown Governor Sir Charles Harwood had a beloved daughter he named Mina, who was dearer to him than anyone else on earth. So comely, and graceful, and gay was Mina Harwood, very few persons held it against her that she was the Governor's daughter, and inclined at times to pride; or that, as a result of her playfulness, one could not always judge whether she spoke in earnest or in jest.

If Sir Charles or his wife approached Mina with the kindly intention of wiping away her tears, she surprised them with a bright smile, and the admonition that they took too seriously what was but a whim; if they, or Mina's fiancé, or one or another of her cousins, dared to smile at her outbursts, she charged them with cruelty, and not caring to know what was in her heart. Even as a child Mina threatened those who loved her with running away, as she called it, to her true home, but no one understood what she meant by these strange words; nor could Mina herself explain.
Where was her true home, if not in Muirkirk?

One midsummer day when Mina was eighteen years old, she and her fiancé and a small party of friends went picnicking on the riverbank, in the vicinity of the great Muirkirk marsh; and somehow it came about that Mina wandered off, being nettled, it was thought, by an inadvertent slight on the part of her fiancé . . . and disappeared for hours. Her friends called out her name, and searched for her, to no avail; not knowing if the headstrong young girl had lost herself in the marsh, or whether in a pique of childish temper she was simply hiding in order to frighten them.

Finally Mina returned, appearing suddenly out of nowhere, flush-faced and smiling, saying in a chiding voice, “Why are you looking at me
so strangely?—don't you know your Mina?” If she had truly been hurt by a stray word or gesture of her fiancé's, she now forgave the distraught young man (who indeed adored her); her arms were filled with things for her friends—violets, swamp lilies, purple lobelia, a strange pulpy fruit (of the size of a large apple, but a dark orangish-purple in hue, and disagreeably soft to the touch), which she pressed gaily upon them. For the remainder of the afternoon, and, indeed, for days afterward, Mina prattled with delight of the “secret wonders” of the great marsh. How unjust it seemed to her, that the swampland was feared and loathed, when it was a place of such exquisite beauty . . . .From childhood on Mina had heard ugly things whispered of the Muirkirk swamp: that it bred pestilence; that it was a place where unwed mothers might dispose of their infants; that, in former times, it had been the ceremonial ground for unspeakable tortures and executions practiced by the Mohawk Indians. But all she had glimpsed were wonders, like the flowers and fruit she had brought back, and the tall straight leafy trees she had seen (so very tall, Mina claimed, their tops were obscured in cloud), and the black and gold butterflies large as a man's fist (in whose delicate wings glinted “eyes” of a sort), and the nameless birds whose songs were infinitely sweeter than any she had ever heard (a bird the size of a sparrow, but beautifully marked in crimson, gold, and blue, had perched on her forefinger, Mina claimed, and had showed no fear of her), and many another remarkable sight . . . .She had been able to walk on the surface of the plankton-encrusted water, she said, for a brief distance, a most uncanny sensation indeed, as if for her,
and for her, Mina Harwood alone,
the laws of Nature had been overturned.