White Crow (6 page)

I was born among a set of foul heathen thinkers, and in that sect I was without God and knew not of God until my eleventh year on the earth, when a plague of vicious ills was enough to wipe the heathens away, leaving me alone. It was a miracle. I came to see it that way, in time.

Unknowing of my true place in the world, and destitute, I came upon a house of God, and they, seeing my plight, taught me the truth of the world, and of God’s love, and of his terrible wrath.

And thus, though I came late to the Truth, did I come upon it fervently, and do now, I believe, hold the Truth more strong than any other man.

Today is the Lord’s day, and after I had undertaken my duties of worship, I ended the day in solemn contemplation of my lot.

As I now approach the far end of my life, certain thoughts raise themselves above others.

More and more, my dreams are haunted by visions of a dire and dreadful nature.

My preaching today, as often these days, hounded the sinful and the wicked. Even as I stood in the pulpit, I scourged the wrong-doers below me with a thousand lashes of my tongue.

And yet, O God, am I any better than any of the wicked of my congregation? And when my time comes, what will be my judgement?

Where will I spend eternity?

Heaven is a field of summer-ripened wheat, upon which the sun always shines, but there is a cool brook nearby to quench your thirst.

No.

Heaven is a pasture of green, with apple trees, and young lambs nibbling the grass beneath them.

No.

Heaven is a vast white cloud where the angels sit, playing gentle and sweet music, reciting tragic poetry to each other.

No.

Heaven is a forest glade in which a thousand pretty girls lie in wait, each one sitting on a freshly opened barrel of wine.

NO!

Why is it so hard to envisage a blissful afterlife? Why is it so hard? Try as I might, I do not feel that anything I can think of even begins to approach the true nature of God’s celestial realms. Why is this? Do I find it easier to conjure the other place to mind because that is where I am heading?

O Lord, let me mend my ways while I still can, and while I still have time, let me see the truth of what lies on the other side of the veil!

But, Lord, I swear upon your son’s name, that if you will not show me, then Dr Barrieux and I shall find out for ourselves.

 

Today I was at the Hall, and the doctor and I spoke long and hard upon our quest. I have recorded before that our quest is to be a voyage into the unknown, but only today did this miraculous Frenchman reveal his full methods to me. We talked, nay, argued for an hour and more and then with a curse, he threw his hands in the air, would speak no more, and took me by the hand.

Holy God!

What I saw!

For when our speaking came to a close, Dr Barrieux led me into the darkest bowels of Winterfold Hall, and there I beheld the dreadful apparatus with which our voyage will be made.

Last night I was plagued by night terrors. I scarce ever saw myself so weak and bereft as this night, and I could find no rest.

I rose at four in the morning, abandoning the torture of my bed, and stumbled into the night, and the fresh air revived my senses.

Deciding me to take a walk, I wandered the streets of

Winterfold, and before I knew it, my feet were leading me to the Hall.

As I approached, I saw why they had led me there.

Despite the hour, a candle burned in a room on the ground floor, at the side of the house. I know this room to be the doctor’s study, and I made my way to the window and peered in.

There sat the doctor, poring over some accounts I fancied. I tapped on the window and far from seeming surprised, the doctor turned his head, squinted, then lifted a hand and beckoned me in.

I met him at the kitchen door and he led me into the drawing room, where the remains of a fire glowed in the grate.

I beheld the doctor. A man of forty or fifty years on the earth, I could not tell which. His wig sat on the desk before him, and now I saw that he still owned a fine head of black hair, but peppered through with grey, as of one who has seen the troubles of the world. His skin is pallid, yet smooth, and I suppose he has kept indoors for most of his time. He has a fine nose, and strong eyebrows, and his stare is most fixed.

He poured me a glass of port, and another of the same for himself, and bid me sit at the fireside.

I did as I was invited, and suddenly, with one sip of the drink at this early hour, began to feel the weariness within me. But the doctor was speaking, speaking of matters both great and small. He spoke of his life, and I tried to heed him, but it became hard to distinguish wakefulness from sleep, and I drifted in and out of the room, my mind like a phantom in the dark.

He spoke of his time in Paris. He had not been born there, but in some place to the south, a place of sunflower fields and walnut trees, he said, but I do not remember if he gave it a name. As a young man he studied natural philosophy, and his studies brought him inevitably to the great city of Paris, with all its philosophers, thinkers, poets, painters, musicians and lovers.

He sampled some of each.

I had grown extreme drowsy, but I know he was speaking of things close to him. All I can recall, is this. He got up from his chair, and went to a table in the corner of the room, returning with a small pair of portraits, two ovals in one frame. Though my ears seemed to have closed down, my eyes beheld a young woman, and a little girl. The woman was beautiful, with curling tumbling black hair, and the complexion of milk. She gazed from her portrait as if amused by something.

In the other half of the frame sat the young girl. She is perhaps eight, a frail and weak-looking thing.

They are mother and daughter, it is clear, and I did not perceive what the doctor was telling me, but he leaned over the chair in which I sat, holding out the portraits, urging me to look.

Then I saw that tears were freely running down his face.

One fell from the doctor’s cheek to mine, and I wiped it away.

He said one word, of French, and it is a word that even I know.

- Mort!