Deirdre was, as I have said, unusually agitated, as a consequence of the long afternoon (during which she was made to feel, or insisted upon feeling, an ugly duckling in the midst of her relatives’ conspicuous splendor; and very much the adopted orphan, in the imagin’d thoughts of the guests), and as a consequence of small slights suffered by her, emanating from Malvinia primarily, but also from Samantha (who, since the tumult of the previous night, during which Deirdre had spoken perhaps too despairingly, and too frankly, of her Raging Captain nightmare, had shown a distinctly cool demeanor to Deirdre—as if altogether fatigued of her, and contemptuous as well). She had had, moreover, several cups of very black India tea, and no food at all save a single cucumber sandwich, and a mere taste of a quince-custard tart, and hardly more than a thimbleful of scalloped oyster: and was feeling dangerously not herself.
(Dangerously: for, as I have explained, it was at such times that the very worst of the spirits sought to thrust themselves forward, through the slender fabric that divides their world from ours, and protects us from them.)
Her fingers worked rapidly, albeit mechanically; her thoughts were loath to still themselves; she heard, beyond the complacent prattle of her sisters, the tinkling laughter of a wicked spirit, possibly that of Zachariah himself.
Malvinia chattered; and Constance Philippa drawled; and Octavia made her usual sort of observations—pious, cheerful, and uplifting; and Samantha, stirred to a modicum of guilt, interrupted the drift of the conversation to inquire of her bedmate, her opinion on something or other: but Deirdre scarcely deigned to reply.
The spirit-laughter deepened, and a companion-laughter sounded out of the sere grasses that grew so handsomely about the gazebo: a queer trilling noise, which raised the hairs on Deirdre’s delicate neck, and made her miss a stitch, out of very horror that her sisters would hear.
Blushing, she stared at the work in her lap; for she knew—ah, how painfully she knew!—that her rude sisters were exchanging a meaningful glance amongst themselves.
Thinking themselves protected, the little fools, by the gazebo that was like a small boy’s notion of a fortress: complete with lightning rod on the roof!
Thinking themselves immune to the spirits—who threatened to crowd near.
Deirdre’s crochet hooks darted and flashed. She knew that something would happen soon, perhaps within the hour; surely before the sun dipped beyond the western hills.
The unnamed spirits giggled, close beside her.
Bianca tugged at the crochet hook in Deirdre’s cold fingers.
But Deirdre held fast: for the hook was sharp, and would make a cruel weapon.
The sweet low brow and arched lips of the Grecian profile, the classic timeless beauty: ah, Malvinia! And yet a single thrust of this crochet hook, would destroy the melting limpid blue of that lovely eye forever!
Bianca tugged, Deirdre held fast. Zachariah drew near.
Constance Philippa began to chatter nervously about Miss Delphine Martineau, whom the spirits, so a sly voice whispered in Deirdre’s ear, had marked for much grief. Delphine was this, Delphine was that, dark and melting brown eyes, hair in irregular ringlets, corkscrew curls, too many Valentines for the boastful young lady to sort, but how passionately Constance Philippa wished to sail away with her!—in an enormous silk balloon, for instance.
You shall all sail away into the sky, Father Darien promised, with an uncharacteristic melancholy, in time. Ah, my dear children: in time.
Seize her scissors from out her hand, a voice counseled. Nudging Deirdre to look toward Malvinia. (And, indeed, the very bright silvery scissors flashed. So brightly, it was no wonder Malvinia’s veil was drawn past her nose; past her beautiful mouth; discreetly covering her chin.)
No, Deirdre said to herself, I shall not.
Mrs. Bonner spoke softly, had perhaps been speaking all along, beneath the other spirits’ babble. It was her mission to explain that Deirdre should cease her mourning . . . for the soul is immortal . . . in God, Who is immortal . . . and thither the soul flies, upon the dissolution of its earthly carapace . . . from eternity to eternity. God is without beginning as He is without end. Grieve no more. Mourn no further. Possess your soul in patience, and in loving kindly deeds. All is finished! All is over. This life is but a dream. There is no death. All that has lived, lives. Do not devour your own bitter heart. The Guardian Spirits hover near at all times. The Angel of Death is not far distant. In a great dark cloud he will come to you, to rescue you, when your earthly suffering becomes too extreme. Trust in me. Trust in God. Do not surrender to the wicked spirits. Love thy enemies, Deirdre, love thy sisters, for they are your trial, as you are theirs. God bless you!
The sisters, hardly guessing at Deirdre’s somnambulistic terror, continued to talk of their insipid cousins and friends: Delphine, Felicity, Odille, Rowena.
If not the crochet hook, then the little scissors, by all means, a spirit-voice murmured shrewdly in Deirdre’s ear. So close was he, the fine hairs on her neck quivered with his breath. Malvinia’s bright bold gaze, her saucy smile. Finished forever. And no suitor to moon over her beauty: imagine, Miss Malvinia Zinn with a glass eye!
In the shape of an abnormally fat bumblebee the malicious Zachariah drifted about them, ready to alight on Constance Philippa’s bonnet, to sting her on the scalp; the poison flowing at once to the brain. She does not want to marry her fiancé, Zachariah informed Deirdre calmly, or any man. Shall I put her out of her misery? Extinguish her on the spot?
Neither the crochet hook, nor the scissors, Mrs. Bonner begged.
Deirdre regarded her sisters through her dense dark lashes. They knew of her rage; yet did not know. Surely they felt the very air tremble with her desire to wound: yet they continued to prattle as if nothing were amiss.
One, two, three swift jabs with the scissors.
And then—flight.
The wishing well, into which one might fall, to sink, to drown, in utter blissful oblivion. Zachariah’s arms held wide, Bianca whining, whimpering. I am so lonely, Deirdre, please, Deirdre, please come.
The bumblebee disappeared. But a spirit hand materialized near the ceiling of the gazebo, a few feet above Samantha’s pert little head. And what did the fingers hold? A spike of some kind? A large sturdy nail?
Samantha had tried to calm her, in their bed. “Deirdre please, please Deirdre, ’tis only a dream-vapor, ’tis only a fancy in your head.” And then she had shrunk away from Deirdre, repulsed.
The pitiful pitiful orphan.
The wishing well, and a painless death. Or the river. Ah, yes, the river! Swimming out, kicking and thrashing, until your skirts and petticoats pull you down. Sweet dark lightless oblivion. Where even the spirits will allow you to sleep in peace.
And yet: to leave Great-Aunt Edwina Kiddemaster untouch’d!
To leave Kiddemaster Hall unscath’d!
You dwell among murderesses and beasts, sly Zachariah said, how much better for you, to come dwell amongst us! For we cannot sin in the flesh: we are innocent now of flesh.
The spirit laughter was such—low and throaty and ribald—that all the sisters glanced up uneasily. Malvinia had lain her needlepoint aside.
Samantha wondered aloud: “Where is Mother? Why is she extending her visit so unconscionably?”
Mrs. Bonner’s faint voice grew stronger. Deirdre, now very frightened, unsnapped the clasp of her locket: and at once the spirit-voice of her belovèd mother, or the woman who had masqueraded as her mother, counseled her.
Do not listen to the wicked spirits. Do no harm to your sisters, as you would wish no harm done to yourself. Love God, and abide in God. Put down your instrument of temptation. You will not injure Malvinia, whom you adore. You will not drown yourself in the well—nor will you wade and swim out into the river, to a clownish muddy death. Rouse yourself from your dream; get to your feet; clear your head of evil thoughts.
Deirdre stared inside her gold locket at the daguerreotypes of her mother and father. Did
she know them? Were they her parents? She was seized with a sudden conviction that they were not her parents. After all, they had died. They had been weak, and died. But John Quincy Zinn was strong. Even the Raging Captain was strong.
You will not drown, Mrs. Bonner said sternly. You will not die.
Suicide is a sin, Father Darien said.
A sin, Mrs. Bonner agreed.
Deirdre continued to stare at the faded old pictures. A woman, a man. What had they to do with her? They had betrayed her by dying. A great dark cloud. A flaming cloud. O’ertaking the Bonners’ modest house in the village, and causing it to explode into flames.
A sin, a sin, Mrs. Bonner insisted. Suicide is a sin.
But murder a delight! prankish Zachariah said in a squeaky falsetto voice, as if in mocking imitation of poor Mrs. Bonner.
Something shall occur within the hour, Deirdre thought clearly. All her pulses rang: an artery deep in her throat throbbed with passion. To hurt, to wound, to jab, to defile. One, two, three savage thrusts with the little crochet hook.
An axe, Zachariah counseled, now in his own voice. He caressed Deirdre’s shoulders, blew the ribbons trailing from her hat, so that they fluttered gaily as if in an innocent breeze. An axe.
I have no axe, Deirdre protested.
An axe. Even a delicate young lady can wield an axe.
But I have none. I know of none.
Behind Kiddemaster Hall, where the land slopes roughly away, hidden by that stand of handsome blue spruce, are outbuildings you have never seen: former slaves’ quarters, the washhouse, the bakehouse, the meathouse, the kennels, the henhouses, the stables, the gardeners’ several sheds—have you never guessed?—and in those sheds, if you make your way quietly, you will find—
“I cannot,” Deirdre whispered inwardly. “I will not.”
In the washhouse, for instance, a keen-eyed young miss will find sugar of lead, spirits of salt, ammonia, and ivory-black—all for cleaning, and all poisonous, and so wonderfully close at hand! Zachariah gloated.
“I cannot,” Deirdre pleaded.
Many a sister, or a hateful husband, or father, or, for that matter, a hateful mother, has died in agony, as a consequence of my delicious ivory-black! Zachariah insisted.
Impudently, his spirit-hand snapped Deirdre’s locket shut.
Deirdre tried to open it, but he held it fast.
Ivory-black, Zachariah whispered. If the axe is too heavy for a young lady with genteel aspirations. If the crochet hook and the scissors are too fearsome.
“I cannot,” Deirdre said, the pulse deep within her throat throbbing hard, “for—you see—I do not hate them sufficiently—I do not altogether wish them dead—”
She looked up, blinking tears from her eyes, and so dazed was she, and so repulsed by the odium of the spirit’s counsel, as well as his loathsome masculine propinquity, that for a very long time she could not concentrate upon her sister’s words. Did they speak of Mr. Zinn?—one of his new machines?—“Its purpose,” Samantha was saying with pert dignity, “is to run forever.”
This innocent remark struck Deirdre so powerfully, as if a blade had entered her heart, that, without knowing what she did, very much like a somnambulist, she rose to her feet—rose to her feet, quite shocking her sisters—and let her crocheting fall—and hurried away—out of the gazebo—across the sloping lawn—half running, despite her long skirts and heavy train—stumbling—gasping and panting and sobbing for breath—leaving her sisters speechless behind her.
Yes, said Mrs. Dodd, her voice as strong as Deirdre had ever heard it, yes, come hither, take yourself out of this vale of temptation, come safely to us, come home, sweet Deirdre, do!
FORTY-ONE
Despite how very many millennia spirits have roamed the earth, it is a curious point of information that they began to communicate, and to wish most strenuously to do so, only in the middle of our redoubtable nineteenth century: and that their point of entry, as it were, into the Earth Plane, was the aptly named town of Arcadia, New York, the dwelling place of the Fox family, in the year 1848.
Just as the unhappy Zinn family had, for a time, suffered the distractions of inexplicable raps, knocks, creakings, and baffling “presences” in their household, so too did the Fox family report disturbances that gradually grew in intensity, until, one memorable evening (it was in fact March 31, 1848), a gentleman bethought himself to inquire of the “presence” his identity, and what he sought in the Fox home: with the astounding results that, communicating solely by raps, in a laborious session that lasted much of the night, the spirit told a tale of having been a pedlar, murdered for money, and buried in the cellar of that very house!
(The reader will forgive me my small frisson of excitement, when I report that energetic digging in the cellar did produce a skeleton, greatly fragmented, but believed to have been human: this no doubt being the remains of the murdered pedlar.)
So Spirit World emerged into the Earthly World, with profound consequences, as we shall see.
THO’ IN LATER years the Fox sisters, by then widely renowned, were to be denounced by a spiteful relative as frauds, and their mediums’ powers explained away as simple parlor magic, it was nonetheless the case that, their fame spreading beyond Arcadia, and soon through all of bucolic upstate New York, they were joined, as it were, by other mediums of divers talents and skills. At first but one, in Ebenezer; and then another, in Brockport; and then, lo and behold!—some five or six, in the village of Pendleton alone—and several more, in Ithaca—and, in Syracuse, a most extraordinary Shetland pony, said to be possessed of “second sight”! In Buffalo, the Brothers Davenport soon proved more prodigious in their gifts, and even more adept at the manipulation of gullible journalists, than the Fox sisters. And, in the idyllic rolling hills of Morah, south of the Great Canal, there came to prominence not one, but two, mediumistic canines: the comely tho’ shy Lupa, and her more brash, and unfailingly crowd-pleasing son, Remus: these being Labrador retrievers, of some uncertain heritage, who earned for their perspicacious master a gratifying financial reward. (Nor should I neglect to mention, by-the-by, that Joseph Smith, the esteemed founder of the Mormon Church, had dwelt in the sleepy village of Palmyra, also in upstate New York: Mr. Smith’s visions and voices being a matter of historical record in some quarters, and surely not to be waved aside, or dismissed, as the babblings of a deranged mind.)
Thus, during the amazing Fifties, the denizens of Spirit World not only greatly increased their numbers, communicating through mediums of all ages, sexes, social distinctions, and species, but increased, as well, their variety of manifestations: for, very soon, mere raps, knocks, and scratchings, were supplanted by faint but unmistakable voices, and the vigorous playing of musical instruments, and scribblings on spirit blackboards; and, upon occasion, in the required twilit conditions—even veiled ectoplasmic figures! (Unbeknownst to Deirdre, who knew very little of the larger phenomenon, of which she was so hapless a part, her contact spirit Zachariah manifested himself to countless mediums in New York State, and to the formidable Jonathan Koons, in Ohio: this spirit complaining of his ill-treatment, in life, as a consequence of unspeakable sanitary conditions in a field hospital, in northern New Jersey, where he died a prolonged gangrenous death, as a common soldier in General Washington’s Army. Whilst this unfortunate fate serves to explain much of Zachariah’s ill-humor, it cannot hope to explain his intrinsic wickedness—the which, I am sorry to say, he most skillfully hid from most of his mediums.)
Very soon, within a brief span of months, this amazing phenomenon became known as Spiritualism, in the public press: and so great was popular interest in it, and so ingenious, as well, the mediums and their consorts, that, by the late Sixties, a considerable amount of money had changed hands; and the gifted Daniel Dunglas Home had swept across the face of skeptical Europe, conquering all, and reaping a most astounding harvest, with his unusual powers—the which involved not only the entire familiar battery of Spiritualist manifestations, b
ut such fanciful variations as the elevating of heavy tables upon which observers and investigators sat. It was a matter of private knowledge to some persons, but by no means a secret, that our great President, Abraham Lincoln himself, received much valuable advice from spirits conjured up by Nellie Colburn, the famous trance medium: Daniel Webster, Cardinal Wolsey, Julius Caesar, and many others routinely gave him counsel, and it was through Miss Colburn’s efforts that the Emancipation Proclamation was made in late 1863, and not delayed, as Lincoln’s aides strongly advised. (Some say that the War Between the States itself was a consequence of the spirits’ fervent wishes, pressed upon an initially resistant Lincoln: but as to the truth of this assertion, it is impossible for me to say.)
By the late Seventies, when Madame Blavatsky emerged to prominence in occult circles, the phenomenon of mediumship, tho’ by no means a commonplace, and angrily attacked from the pulpit, had established itself with admirable alacrity as a respectable source of wisdom; its powers to entertain, and to console the bereft, being implicitly understood. The reader will not be surprised, I hope, to learn that many a Rationalist fell under the sway of the Spiritualists, and so eminent a gentleman as Nathaniel Hawthorne, observing the extravagant manifestations of Mr. Home, in Florence, recorded that the soberly attested incredibilities were proven, to his skeptical satisfaction, to be sober facts. Statesmen and politicians consulted the spirits of Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Genghis Khan; Conan Doyle became a proselytizer, with embarrassing enthusiasm; Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate of England, was discovered to have been reading Madame Blavatsky’s mystical poem, “The Voice of the Silence,” on his very deathbed. Such prominent scientists as Alfred Russel Wallace and William Crookes were active believers. The lecturer, pamphleteer, and militant Fabian Socialist Mrs. Annie Besant not only converted to Theosophy, but, with much determination, took over the Holy Cause in Madame Blavatsky’s declining years. And Thomas Alva Edison, our American Wizard, was an enthusiastic member of the Theosophical Society . . . to his shame be it known!