White Crow (4 page)
But an actor hanging himself?
Suddenly Rebecca bursts out laughing.
‘What?’ says Ferelith. ‘He’s killing himself and you’re laughing!’
‘I just thought what my friends would say if they knew I spent Friday night trying to see a Munchkin kill himself.’
I’m Not Dead
Supposing you wanted to prove something, something important. Supposing you wanted to prove, for argument’s sake, that there is life after death.
Now you may say, I do not know of a single proven example of communication from beyond the grave. To the best of all human knowledge, it appears that we do not live on after death. And you might give me an example to make things simpler to understand. You might say that although you have not seen every crow in the whole world, every crow you have ever seen is black. Therefore the chances are very great that all crows are black. In fact, you have decided for a fact that all crows
are
black. Now of course, if someone could show you a white crow, everything would be overturned in a moment.
are
black. Now of course, if someone could show you a white crow, everything would be overturned in a moment.
But all crows are black.
And in the same way, you conclude that no one lives after death. There is no ‘other side’. There is no white crow.
But, supposing I said I had seen a white crow? Just one. A single white crow.
What then?
1798, 9m, 1d.
Today being the first of a new month brings with it thoughts of a new start, a new approach, and as sure as blood flows in my veins, I feel that this is a time of change, of the end of old things and the start of new ones. And yet Autumn is coming. I can smell it on the morning air, and Autumn signifies the approach of winter, of leaves on the ground, and bare branches in the air. It is death and decay.
It is a week now since I dined at the Hall, and I must finally acknowledge what I found, what we spoke of, and what manner of man is Dr Barrieux.
We ate in the large dining room, heavy drapes obscured the glass and made the place a gloomy pit.
We ate well, and drank, I am sore sick to confess, copiously, so that the meal became one long orgy of food, of drink, and of ideas.
And what ideas!
The doctor is a genius, I saw that at once, and I am immodest to suggest that I saw that he admired my skills with the soul as well.
It seems we have a great many thoughts in common, and as the food continued to be brought in, and as the wine continued to flow (God scourge me) like the rivers of the Holy Land, we approached each other; distant at first, but coming rapidly closer and closer.
I learned a little of the doctor’s history, but there are things hidden from me that he would not speak of, and I was left to wonder at much. Of other members of family, I was not informed. He appears to be alone in the great rooms of Winterfold Hall, with only his serving staff on hand to minister to him.
At one moment or another he would refer tantalisingly to this name or that person, and some hints made me think that he was married. Or had been once.
What I did learn was that he was newly arrived from Paris, having served as a physician there for many years. I was to understand that he had survived the Reign of Terror, and the death of kings, despite working in a minor capacity in the court. He had then advised on the physical health of some of the revolutionaries themselves - Danton, Robespierre, Marat - again surviving where many of these did not.
And then, the trail of his tale grew vague, for all else I can recall of his ventures is his arrival in England, and his removal to Winterfold.
As we fell to talking of the great mysteries of life, we saw that we have a common purpose.
We will unite around that purpose, and our accomplishments will be great.
We will make a voyage to the unknown, and we will return with truth.
O
ver the weekend, Rebecca’s father is preoccupied. At a late breakfast on Saturday the tension is unbearable, as they both torture each other with the clinks of cutlery on crockery. Rebecca tries to eat as fast as she can without making it look obvious, desperate to disappear back to her room.
ver the weekend, Rebecca’s father is preoccupied. At a late breakfast on Saturday the tension is unbearable, as they both torture each other with the clinks of cutlery on crockery. Rebecca tries to eat as fast as she can without making it look obvious, desperate to disappear back to her room.
She’s standing up when her father speaks.
‘Sorry,’ he says. It’s just enough to make her sit down again. She tells herself she doesn’t hate him, what she hates is the situation he’s got them in.
He doesn’t continue, but gets up and fumbles in his briefcase, pulling out a newspaper article, torn from a larger sheet, folded and a bit faded.
She knows what it will be without needing to look, but she goes through the motions and unfolds it. She’s right; it’s one she’s seen before, and she feels sick.
‘Someone put it under the windscreen wiper. I guess I thought someone would find out.’ He rubs his eyes with finger and thumb, and swears softly. ‘I guess I thought someone would find out, just not so quickly.’
Rebecca gets to her feet and tries to put her arms around him and hug him with the ease she had when she was little, but it doesn’t come easily now.
He shakes his head.
‘Plans for today?’ he asks.
Rebecca shakes her head.
‘Not sure.’
‘Made any friends? You always had so many friends in London.’
‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘No.’
She turns for the tiny staircase, heading for her room, when her father speaks again.
‘We can get some more,’ he says.
‘More what?’
‘More DVDs. If you’re bored, we can get more, they only have a couple of old things at the shop, don’t they?’
He sees the blank look on her face.
‘The Wizard of Oz, I saw you bought it.’
A gentle tingle starts to inch up Rebecca’s spine, heading for her neck.
‘The DVD?’ she says. ‘It wasn’t here when you rented the house?’
‘No, nothing at all. I thought you bought it. Didn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Rebecca, ‘No. That’s right, I did.’
‘You all right, Tiger?’
‘Yes, more would be good,’ says Rebecca, adding automatically, ‘and don’t call me Tiger.’
She vanishes upstairs, wondering exactly what it is she’s feeling.
Fear? Fascination?
A little of both.
1798, 9m, 10d.
The first day of the week brings a beginning to Winterfold Hall. After attending to some poor souls in the slum dwellings at the farm, and paying my regular courtesy to Widow Somers, I walked round by way of Long Lane, and through the wheat field, marvelling at a vast and raucous crowd of crows wheeling in the sky above me, to arrive at the Hall around the middle morning.
I am unsure as to what I expected to discover, but there seemed little to witness.
Having pulled on the bell cord and receiving no admittance, nor even reply, I retreated a few paces and, feeling the heat of the morning, sat on the lawn in front.
From time to time I fancied I heard subterranean rumblings, but dismissed these as the distant crashing of the waves on the beach, albeit some half-mile hence.
The morning wore on, and as I began to perceive an unheeded dampness from the grass through my cassock, I was about to leave, when the front door to the Hall swung open and a horde poured forth.
They looked as if they had come straight from Hell, a gang and gaggle of swarthy navvies, each stripped to the waist and sweating greatly, smeared with the detritus of the pit, wildly staggering for cleanliness of air, and daylight. They were a rum bunch, no doubt of that.
Behind them, somewhat more calmly, but not in his usual neat apparel, came the doctor.
He shouted to the workmen, bidding them to take breath, and water from the pump in the side yard.
Only then did Dr Barrieux apprehend my presence, and came to speak to me.
I enquired as to the state of progress.
- A fine start, Rector. Would you like to see?
I assured him I trusted his labours and his ministration, but he was like a boy excited by bees and would only insist that I see the developments with mine own eyes.
He spoke the truth.
- They arrived under darkness, he explained. So as not to arouse wonder in the town. They began early, and are you not impressed with their labours?
I was.
The doctor and I exchanged a few words, and then I returned to God’s light, blinking, bidding the doctor farewell.
As I left I felt a great thirst, from the heat and the dirt, and though I would have had wine were it to hand, I turned my thoughts to the water pump the doctor had spoken of.
Unable to source its location, I turned to one of the navvies.
- My good fellow, I said, and bid him tell me where I could find water.
He stared at me as if he were stupid, or I, and did not answer me.
- Water? I said, pointing to my mouth.
He shook his head. I turned to another of the men, a hulking brute, and again he would not answer me, but this time pointed around to the far side of the hall.
Shaking my head, I made swift route to the pump, and saw two or three of the men gathered round it.
- Will you pump for me while I drink, man? I asked the nearest of them.
He bent to his task, but again said not a word.
I took a long drink, bathing my face in the cool liquid, and straightened.
The men stood watching me, and still none of them uttered a sound.
- What is wrong with you all? Do none of you have anything to say?
The nearest, who at least must have understood English, pointed to his mouth.
I shook my head in confusion, and so he opened his mouth, and showed me that he had no tongue, that at some point in his miserable life it had been cut out. He pointed to the man next to him, and the one next to him, and waved his hand at them, and they too opened their mouths to show that their organ of speech had also been forcibly removed.
Before I left, I went round every man in the gang, nine of them. Each and every one a mute.
Each and every one without the power of speech.
I wondered at Dr Barrieux, at what it was he intended;
I wondered why he deemed a gang of mute labourers necessary to his work, and I marvelled at the power of the man to go to such lengths to ensure the success of his labours.
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