“And what have you concluded?”
“A mutant. A rare disease. A creature from the inferno. Dante.”
“And what if you found out you were right?” he asked. “What if it meant that I could hurt you?”
“I would say that I’m not scared. Everyone has the ability to hurt. It’s the choice that matters.”
We talked every night. My grandfather was in and out of the house for business meetings, funding numerous ventures, charitable foundations, etcetera, etcetera. So I spent most of my days alone, exploring the house and the estate grounds. After going through his entire library looking for information on Gottfried, my grandfather, or the curse, I found nothing, and resorted to trudging through the snowy Massachusetts woods in tall boots, imagining my mother doing the same thing when she was my age, her cheeks flushed and rosy, her lips chapped, her nose dripping from the cold.
And even though every morning I prepared myself for the inevitable night when Dante didn’t call, he always did. We talked for hours; our voices traveling to each other in waves and currents; the distance somehow pulling us closer together.
After talking to Dante, I looked through my mother’s belongings over and over again, picking things up and putting them back delicately, afraid to hold anything for too long. I found dozens of books about cats, a sewing machine and a box of bobbins, a photograph of my mother and father from when they first met. They looked only a little bit older than me and were sitting on the grass beneath a giant tree, staring at each other and smiling. It was my first Christmas without my parents, and I missed them so much it was unbearable.
“Nothing’s the same,” I told Dante. “I miss cutting down the tree with my dad and trying to fit it into the station wagon. Drinking hot chocolate and listening to cheesy Christmas songs while we decorated the tree together. How my dad always left cookies and milk by the fireplace, even when I was a teenager. The tree here is too perfect. It’s not even crooked or anything. It’s unnatural.”
“Unnatural?” Dante said softly.
“I don’t even think its needles fall off. What kind of tree is that?”
“Evergreens aren’t supposed to die.”
“Everything dies.” Immediately I thought of my parents. “Sometimes too soon.”
There was a long silence. Finally Dante said, “It will get better, Renée. Don’t wish your life away just because your parents lost theirs.”
I sighed. “It would be better if you were here.”
“I’ll get to see you every day for the rest of the school year,” he said. “It’s only fair that I let your grandfather have a week or two.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?”
“That’s what I worry about. That one morning you’ll come to your senses and realize that a girl like you would never want to be with someone like me.”
I shook my head, confused. “I would never think that.
You helped me pass Latin. You stood up for me in front of Gideon and Vivian and the headmistress. And you found Eleanor. You’re like no one I’ve ever met. What kind of girl do you think I am that I wouldn’t want to be with you?”
“Unreal.”
On Christmas Eve there was a blizzard. Snow piled up to the windows, burying the lampposts, the statues, the fountain. I sat through a stiff holiday dinner with my grandfather, Dustin standing in the corner while I picked at my ham. Midway through, I turned to him.
“Why don’t you join us?”
Dustin, surprised at being addressed, didn’t know how to respond. “I...um...thank you, Miss Winters, but I’ve already eaten.”
“Well, that can’t be true. I saw you just before dinner, polishing the silver and setting the table.”
Dustin looked embarrassed.
“Thank you, Miss Winters, but I’m quite all right here.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t look all right. You look uncomfortable. Who can stand for that long?”
Dustin’s eyes traveled to my grandfather, who coughed and stopped chewing.
“Why yes,” my grandfather said with a jolt. “How silly of me. Dustin, please do sit. We have more than enough for three.”
I gazed at the heaping platter of ham and cured meats and yams in front of us, and stood up to pull out the chair next to me for Dustin. “You can use one of my forks. I have too many anyway.”
So Dustin sat down at the table, probably for the first time.
After dinner I helped him clear the table. Then we did the dishes together and left a glass of milk and two cookies beneath the tree. My grandfather retired to the Smoking Parlor. “Merry Christmas, Renée,” he said, squeezing my shoulder. He put on his glasses. “If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”
Just before midnight I crept downstairs in my mother’s pajamas. The Gingham Library was a few rooms down from the Smoking Parlor, in between the Game Parlor and the Red Room. Although it seemed silly, the idea that Dante would be in the Copleston Library thinking of me, while I was in my grandfather’s library, was the only thing that helped me forget about my parents. The house was quiet and dark, save for the Christmas tree, its lights twinkling in the foyer. As I tiptoed down the hall I could see snow falling past the windows in the moonlight. Portraits of men in three-corner hats and velvet scarves lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow me as I passed.
But just as I turned the corner, I heard footsteps thumping against the floor. The light in my grandfather’s study was still on, beaming under the door. Even though I wasn’t at school, I still didn’t want to be caught wandering around at night. Just as his doorknob turned, I ran, slipping around the corners in my socks until I found myself in the kitchen.
I decided to get a glass of milk while I was there. So I opened the cupboards, looking for a cup. The kitchen was glistening in the dark, the moonlight reflecting off the long granite countertops, the hanging pots and pans, the knives stuck magnetically to the wall. I had never been in there alone; the kitchen staff was always preparing or cleaning something.
Finally I opened what turned out to be a huge lazy Susan. In the back, I spotted a row of mugs hanging from hooks. Leaning in, I grasped at one, but it was just out of my reach. So I stepped in, plucking the cup from the hook. Down the hall, the grandfather clock chimed midnight. The lazy Susan trembled, and I grasped at the hooks while it rotated. And suddenly I was on the other side of the wall.
An odd sort of room welcomed me with warm, stale air. It was large with angular ceilings and narrow windows that diffracted the moonlight off the walls, giving the room the hazy feeling of an attic. A living room, I thought. One that I had never seen before. One that looked oddly similar to the Second Living Room. I thought back to the tour Dustin had given me on the first day. There was no First Living Room, he had told me. But he was wrong, because I was standing in it.
There were no doors. A staircase carved into the corner led up to the second floor. I walked around, examining the taxidermied animals hung about the room: a raccoon, a badger, a full-sized cougar scowling above the fireplace. In a glass hutch by the windows there was a collection of shovels and odd-looking gardening tools. Surrounding everything were walls and walls of books.
I didn’t recognize the authors or titles of any of them. More than half were in Latin or some version of Old or Middle Latin that used an earlier form of the alphabet. The others were antique and leather bound, translated from Greek or French or Italian. They must have been hundreds of years old, I thought, running my hands along their cracked covers until I stopped at a title that caught my eye. I crooked my head to make sure I was reading it correctly. Seventh Meditation by René Descartes.
I pulled it out. It was the same book that Miss LaBarge had mentioned in class, the book that had been banned in Europe, that most people didn’t even know existed. I opened it. The table of contents read as follows:
I. OF DEATH AND THE SOUL
II. OF THE DEATH OF CHILDREN
III. OF NON MORTUUS
IV. OF BURIAL RITUALS
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V. OF LATIN AND ITS EXTINCTION
VI. OF IMMORTALITY
In shock, I reread the title of chapter three, “Of Non Mortuus.” The files, I thought to myself. Those were the words describing Cassandra Millet’s status in her file. Through the walls I heard the clock chime a muffled twelve thirty. I gazed around the room, clutching the book to my chest. I had to find a way out. It seemed I had two options: go back through the pantry, or go up. Out of curiosity, I climbed up to the second floor.
It opened into my grandfather’s dressing closet. I pushed through his suits until I heard the hangers jangle together. Clasping them still, I froze, waiting for him to burst into the closet, take the book, and punish me. But nothing happened. Stepping carefully over his shoes and horns and polish, I slipped out the door and into his room. His bed was empty. He must still be downstairs, I thought. In the Smoking Parlor or the study, where he often had a nightcap. Letting out a sigh of relief, I escaped into the hallway and ran down the corridor to the east wing.
CHAPTER 13
The Seventh Meditation
WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY ROOM I SHUT THE door behind me, turned on the bedside lamp, and sank to the ground. Seventh Meditation was a small leather-bound book with unevenly cut pages that had been faded yellow by the sun. It left a dusty residue on my fingers. I opened it, excitement stirring within me. The pages were so stiff I worried they would fall out if I turned them too quickly. Carefully, I flipped to the first section and began to read.
I. OF DEATH AND THE SOUL
In these meditations, I will attempt to consider the idea of the Dead as Undead. Matters of the Body and Soul are ones that our faithful institutions of government and justice would like to keep hidden. Therefore, in accordance with the idea that knowledge should be accessible to all men, I will divulge in these writings the little-known facts about Life and Death.
I skimmed until I reached the following text:
Humans are made of two things—a Body and a Soul. Upon death, a person’s body dies, after which point his soul is “cleansed” and reborn into a new person. This is why some moments feel as though we’ve lived them twice; why a person can often have the same essence as someone who died decades before.
The text was peppered with diagrams and sketches—one of the human body; another of the cross section of a human head, inside of which was a drawing of a homunculus. This, presumably, was the soul. I skipped forward to the next section.
II. OF THE DEATH OF CHILDREN
The matter of Children is one that is particularly troubling to adults. All adults follow the rules stipulated in Part I of this Meditation. However, there is one exception. When a child dies, his Soul leaves his body. Yet, in opposition to our customary education of the biological processes of Life and Death, the child does not die. Instead of “dying,” as adult bodies do, the child’s body lies dormant for nine days. On the tenth day it rises again without a soul. The child then wanders the world, searching for it. It is my supposition that this is nature’s way of giving youth a second chance at life. They are what we call Non Mortuus, or the Undead.
Non Mortuus. That was the word on Cassandra’s file. Did that mean she was Undead? I scanned the page. Beside the text were more sketches, this time of children lying in a field. It looked like they were sleeping, though after reading the text, I knew that they were “dead.” I flipped forward.
III. OF NON MORTUUS
The Undead have no Souls. They cannot be killed by normal means, for they are already dead. Although they are still children, and appear harmless, this is a falsehood. The Undead have no human instincts. They do not eat, they do not sleep, they do not feel. With time, their bodies decay, and they must constantly seek ways to preserve themselves before their bodies die again and return to the earth.
The observed characteristics of the Undead are those often associated with other dead creatures. Skin that is cold to the touch. A stiffness of the limbs. Breath that contains no human warmth. They have also been identified to have incredible healing powers, their wounds closing as quickly as they are broken. Fluency in Latin and Latinate tongues. A lack of complete sensation and emotion. Yet most notably, they are known to reanimate into the best versions of themselves. Stronger than their human form, or more intelligent, or more beautiful.
My heart began to race as my eyes darted back and forth across the text. I was no longer thinking about Cassandra and Benjamin. Skin that was cold to the touch. A stiffness of the limbs. Breath that contained no human warmth. Fluency in Latin.
I read the words over and over, trying to find some other explanation for what I now realized were symptoms. But it all fit. The cold skin and breath, the way he had healed in a heartbeat. I hadn’t been seeing things. It was all true. That’s why he never wore a jacket, why he never came to the dining hall, why he never slept. Because he wasn’t human. He was dead. But what did it even mean to be Undead? The word conjured up grotesque images of corpses and vampires and mindless creatures staggering around in a trance. But Dante wasn’t any of those. Was he?
Thus, their existence is a tortured and miserable one. They have but one purpose—to seek and obtain their missing Soul. They have twenty-one years to find it, twenty-one being the number demarcating the transformation from child to adult. If by their twenty-first year they do not find their soul, they begin to decompose at an accelerated rate until their bodies are completely destroyed. This, I have observed to be a particularly painful process. However, if they do find the person with their Soul, they reclaim it through the pressing together of mouths, otherwise known as Basium Mortis. Through this act the Undead becomes human again, and lives a natural life. The victim dies from a failure of the heart, their corpse aged and withered without its soul.
I reread the last sentence. It described my parents. Benjamin Gallow. And most likely all of the people who had died of heart attacks at Gottfried. This was the Curse. The Undead.
The danger of the Undead lies in this method, for they are also able to take Souls that are not theirs. This temporarily reverses the decaying process; however, it also results in the death of the other. The problem for humans lies in the dire handicap that we are unable to distinguish between the living and the Undead. In my logic, it would thus seem that humans are doomed to fall under the mercy of these unkillable, soulless creatures....
Basium Mortis. The cause of death in Benjamin’s file. Did he die because someone took his soul? I turned the page. The pictures were disturbing. They showed children sucking the souls out of other children. Their faces looked hungry and bestial, driven by animal cravings. Though strangely, I thought, it looked like they were kissing. The realization struck me, and I sat up and gasped. Kissing. Dante refused to kiss me on the lips. This must be why. A kiss could kill me.
IV. OF BURIAL RITUALS
Ancient civilizations discovered a way to prevent children from turning into the Undead. Before this period, burial rituals were not yet in existence. The dead were left to nature, which was the fate that all of Earth’s creatures met when they died. The Egyptians were among the first to discover that by mummifying their dead and encasing them in pyramids, the children wouldn’t rise again.
Later civilizations found that there were three things the Undead could not withstand without decaying: fire, geometric golden ratios, and the underground. Since then, each society has discovered new ways of preventing the Undead from rising: by fire—funeral pyres and cremation; by golden ratio—coffins and pyramids; and by the underground—burials and catacombs. Each of these rituals was created for one sole purpose—to let our children rest.
Over time and transgression, the rituals became so ingrained in society that people forgot why they were performed. Soon, everyone—including adults—was buried or cremated, and no one remembered that children could rise from the dead.
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. Raising a trembling hand, I wiped them away with the back of my fist. Images of Dante lying dead in a field flooded my mind
as I gazed at the pictures, unable to look away. To illustrate the burial rituals, Descartes had drawn diagrams of each tradition, with steps next to it. One was a six-sided coffin, around which Descartes noted how it had to be made of a hard wood, nailed shut, and buried no less than six feet beneath the earth. This was why Dante didn’t go underground. It wasn’t a childhood trauma, per se, although dying was traumatizing. He didn’t go underground because he couldn’t; otherwise he would die for good.
I skimmed through the next few pages, examining the diagrams and rules of the pyramids, of mummification and embalmment. In the margins were all kinds of notes about the kind of gauze that had to be used, the number of layers the mummy had to be wrapped in, and the design of the maze within the pyramids and their geometric orientation.
They were all familiar to me from History class, as mummies were of particular interest to Professor Bliss, though I had never considered their purpose.
The next drawing was of a body with coins on its eyes, resting on a funeral pyre. The use of coins, Descartes explained, was a discovery of the Greeks, and were given to the dead so they could pay the boatman on the river Styx to take them to Hades. Below it was a picture of a child with cloth stuffed in his mouth. I stared at it, unable to believe what I was seeing. My parents couldn’t have been Undead; they were adults. So why would they have died that way? And what did their deaths have to do with any of this?
V. OF LATIN AND ITS EXTINCTION
Latin is the language the Undead speak. In ancient times, before the founding of the Roman Empire, before people discovered burial rituals, Latin was only spoken by children. It was the one way to tell who was Undead and who was alive.
In Roman mythology, two children were the original founders of Rome. Their names were Romulus and Remus, and they were brothers. While this is a commonly accepted myth among educated society, what most are not aware of is that Romulus and Remus were Undead, having both drowned in the River Tiber before rising again.