Gorgesque
Jon Jacks
Other New Adult and Children’s books by Jon Jacks
The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly
The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale
A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)
The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator
Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll’s Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666
P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers
Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)
Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent
Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak
Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife
Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches
The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl
Text copyright© 2015 Jon Jacks
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‘For Sale: Child’s crib, never used’
Island Chronicle, Personal Announcements Page
Chapter 1
This was the very first time I had ever seen photographs of the Gorgesque: I had seen innumerable paintings, of course, proudly gracing the rooms and halls of the homes I’d visited, but this new innovation, fresh from the mainland, somehow captured the sharp separation of beauty and ugliness with a starkness no other portraits had managed.
Perhaps the chiaroscuro, the lack of colour, emphasised the sitters’ divine and grotesque natures. Perhaps sensing this, some of the sitters had insisted on the wearing of the half veil, something no Gorgesque would ever contemplate when having their portrait painted.
In life, the half veil serves as a tease, awaiting the reveal of the horror beneath: yet here, of course, the veil can’t be turned aside, and so all we see is the sheer perfection, the view of their imperfections denied us.
When I’m asked to pose, when I too have joined the Gorgesque, will I seek to hide my hideousness too?
*
‘A shame, a true shame; the way they insisted on retaining the veil, don’t you think, Señorista Teresimo?’
I’d become so entranced by the pictures displayed upon the wall that I’d failed to detect the approach of the photographer until he was standing directly alongside me.
If Katerina were here, she’d be scandalised.
I thought I was in this room on my own, that Katerina and her parents were in discussion with Señorat Holandros regarding organising a sitting.
I’m lost for words.
A male Grotesgeous is not supposed to approach, let alone talk to, a female of the Gorgesque (or even one, like me, a few months off from having the operation). They must be granted permission to do so: and even then, it would only ever be under the eyes of a chaperone.
Yet this is a Grotesgeous with unnatural airs about him, a graceful manner, an elegant way of dressing. Obviously, his expertise in this new and much in demand innovation has granted him a self-confidence sadly lacking in most Grotesgeous.
‘I…I find them beautiful,’ I say, wondering if he knows that I’m lying, fearing his whole reason for approaching me is his observation of my admiration for the way his work had captured the horror of the Gorgesque.
He nods, apparently accepting my lie.
It’s hard to tell, of course, what he really thinks, the expression on one side of his face coming across as startling different on the other, with what appears to be a pensive frown on his right transformed into a doubtful, almost accusing grimace on his left.
When he’d spoken of ‘shame’, was he speaking aesthetically, believing as many do that true beauty lies in the celebration of complete opposites, the ugly and beautiful made one, not two? Or was he referring to the shame of the sitters, their refusal to freely display this merging of opposites as a reminder that good and evil lies within each of us, no matter our outward exterior.
As part of the creed states, ‘We should show with spiritual pride that we have cast aside material pride.’
Señorat Holandros has no veil. Grotesgeous are not expected to wear one, for they have gained in the transference, receiving beauty. His donor no doubt wears his veil proudly, displaying every now and again his share of the ugliness Señorat Holandros had originally suffered.
‘Andraetra!’
Katerina is scandalised! I can tell by her tone of disgust and anguish.
Ironically, as Señorat Holandros and I both turn to see her standing in the doorway, he’s the one who manages to retain his composure, I’m the one who whirls around excitedly on the balls of my feet, as if still a child.
Like me Katerina still retains her natural beauty, her birthday almost as far off as mine. Of course, until she’s welcomed into the ranks of the Gorgesque, her dress has to remain plain and unflattering, despite the wealth of her parents.
‘I beg your forgiveness, Señorista Delmestra.’
The young photographer remained calm, despite Katerina’s scolding frown. He gave a slight, demure bow of his head by way of an apology.
‘It was just that Señorista Teresimo appeared intrigued by my works, and I simply meant to offer her an explanation of the process, if any were required.’
He ever so fleetingly glanced my way, doubtlessly hoping I would take his side and spare him a scandal and the subsequent opprobrium of the island’s society.
‘This is true, Katerina,’ I lied. ‘I find it quite remarkable, don’t you, the way he has so accurately captured life on nothing but ingeniously treated glass?’
Within Señorat Holandros’s eyes I caught what I thought was a grateful glint.
‘Then Andraetra, I fear that you’re the one who’s acting irresponsibly!’
She swooped across the floor towards me, the base of her full length dress swishing across the polished wooden boards like urgently drawn drapes. With a final admonishing glower at poor Señorat Holandros, she wrapped a protective arm around my bared shoulders, leading me back towards the doorway by which she’d entered.
‘Don’t worry: my poor brother won’t hear of this!’ she hissed tearfully in my ear.
*
Chapter 2
As we exited Señorat Holandros’s studio, a cooling wind was coming in off the sea, rippling through the thick, almost rubbery leaves of the trees. It was a wind that also sent the vast white sails of the ships billowing, scudding clouds against the black smoke erupting from the tall, dark chimney of a paddle steamer.
Will Pavro be returning soon on one of these ships?
He’d been studying on the mainland, but he would have to return soon to prepare for the transference. Very few people left the island again once they’d undergone the transformation; a conversion not just of our physicality, but thereby also of our very souls.
The illumination of our better natures through the recognition of our lower selves.
Of course, few people from the mainland understood or appreciated the spiritual depths of our version of the faith: they were, rather, usually horrified by what they witnessed on our island, to the extent that few people visited anymore. They found both the Gorgesque and the Grotesgeous equally repulsive, incapable of perceiving that one had
sacrificed beauty, whereas the other had received it.
Naturally, the island’s alien fauna and its many, overly large insects also dissuaded visitors to our shores. I had always presumed that, in these terms at least, our island was much like any other tropical island, but apparently our insects were terrifying, our trees and bushes bizarre at best, disconcerting at worst.
Personally, I found the startling iridescence of the blooms, blazing against a setting of dark greens, more pleasing than any items of jewellery. Even the insects, with their sheens of glistening emerald, of ruby, of sapphire, were gorgeous if admittedly dangerous.
Taking a cue from the spectacular colours of our island paradise, the carriage awaiting us was every bit as gaily decorated, its innumerable and elaborately enamelled carvings of saints and their religious exploits making it the equivalent of any church altar.
It was a bravura display of wealth, of good fortune, both of which the Delmestra dynasty had had in abundance, almost from the day they’d alighted on these shores.
Accordingly, the interior was one of sternness and darkness, austere in its simplicity of poor leather and barely padded wooden seats. It was deliberately uncomfortable, such that many ladies secretly padded out the bustles of their dresses to grant some degree of cushioning.
Doñasta Delmestra refrained from utilising such niceties. She was already seated within the carriage, alongside Doñas Delmestra, their hideousness unveiled and freely displayed to each other, his right to her left.
Again, whenever I saw the Delmestras seated like this, I couldn’t help but wonder if Pavro and I would follow their lead or – like most newlyweds – risk a period in which we’d sit with our better sides to each other. It was frowned upon, naturally, by every strata of society, yet forgiven by most provided it was only a brief foolishness.
The Delmestras were in love, I was sure of it.
Doñas Delmestra, like Pavro, had the flamboyant flare of thick hair that somehow brought the two halves of his face together, such that he wore his ugliness with the certainty of a war hero displaying a war wound, almost as if it were a medal. Doñasta Delmestra on the other hand, despite the warped hideousness of the left-hand side of her face, still shone with a wondrous beauty whenever she utilised her veil, a beauty fully apparent in Katerina’s untouched face.
Today, however, that natural beauty that existed within both of them was apparently strained, the skin tightened, the eyes dark and deeply set.
They had been crying: the dark eyeliner surrounding their eyes, despite having been carefully reapplied at some point recently, had run with the tears, the staining apparent within the otherwise flawless perfection of their painstakingly applied cosmetics. (Of course, Doñasta Delmestra’s darker side remained completely untouched.)
And yet: they smiled every now and again, almost blissfully. As if they had received, while attending the photographer’s studios, an almost divine intervention, rewarding them with a knowledge denied anyone else.
How could I read such a fabulous belief into the most simple of smiles?
Because even Doñasta Delmestra’s ugliness shone as if illuminated by God himself.
*
Chapter 3
It would be impolite of me to ask any of the Delmestras what had happened in the studio.
Or, at least, it would be ill-mannered to ask the adult Delmestras: as soon as we arrived home, I intended to ask Katerina why they all seemed to be hovering between both agony and joy, grief and bliss.
Although there was little difference in our ages, the difference between us being only a matter of months, Katerina tended to treat me the way an older sister would: with a great deal of loving admonishment, protection, and scolding, along with good measures of both educational advice and scorn. As a ward of her parents since my own had died while I was still ridiculously young, I couldn’t expect fairer treatment, for it meant I was regarded by all of the Delmestras as a natural part of their family rather than an unwanted intrusion.
My betrothal and eventual marriage to Pavro would cement that link between us. Finally, I really would be a Delmestra, not just an honorary member.
And that, of course, only made Katerina all the more protective of me, for she knew her twin brother’s happiness was utterly dependent upon my own wellbeing. Similarly, too, she had all the more reason to ensure I didn’t stray from any correct modes of behaviour, such as talking while unchaperoned to an unattached male, and a lowly Grotesgeous at that.
Across from me, Doñas Delmestra uncharacteristically reached out to grasp the hand of his wife. She clutched his hand gratefully, tightly, her eyes glistening with tears of joy.
That was one thing the transference could never change: the eyes.
*
If not actually a window to the soul, as some people claim, then I can sincerely vouch that eyes always reveal when a person is hiding something.
I stared intently into Katerina’s eyes as I finally asked the question I’d been meaning to ask since boarding the carriage outside of Señorat Holandros’s studio.
‘Is it Parvo? Has anything happened to Pavro?’
Naturally, I couldn’t work out how our visit to a photographer’s studio would have anything to do with Pavro. Yet during the ride home I had every now and again caught the odd surreptitious glance my way – the eyes again, you see – from each of them that seemed to imply they were holding something from me, that they were pondering if or when they should bring me in on their secret.
On being asked my question, Katerina’s whole body went rigid, her face stark, signs of a raging internal war as she tried to work out what she should tell me, what must remain hidden.
She nodded, an abrupt nod, as if forced from her.
‘Is…is he all right?’ I asked, unsure why I was asking such a question.
Surely, if anything terrible had happened to him, the Delmestras would be entirely distraught. And how would a visit to a photographer’s divulge bad news regarding him anyway?
Katerina grimaced edgily, her face briefly that of the Gorgesque she would soon be.
‘He…he’s going to be fine,’ she blurted out.
‘Has he been ill? Is he recovering?’
I grasped Katerina’s hands nervously.
‘Yes, yes; recovering,’ she said, avoiding my quizzical gaze.
‘Katerina, please! What’s going on? Why would you find out all this at an art studio?’
Her hands apprehensively tightened around mine.
‘It’s more than a studio! It’s…’
Her brow creased as she searched for the right words.
‘Did you see the portraits of the younger people?’
‘Why yes, of course; I was most surprised that they were on display – and that Señorat Holandros hasn’t been arrested, and his works destroyed!’
No portraiture was allowed of anyone pre-transference: it was regarded as too sinful to celebrate the beauty of youth.
‘A fashion – of sorts: perhaps practice would be a better term – has come about on the mainland: the merging of this new innovation of photography with, er, an older profession…’
Once again she was struggling for words, uneasy, and avoiding my gaze.
‘Katerina!’ I snapped in irate frustration. ‘What has happened to Pavro?’
‘Andraetra: please! I’m trying to think of the best way of describing a difficult – a complicated – situation: so you don’t go jumping to the wrong conclusions, and cause yourself unnecessary distress!’
‘So, so what is it Katerina? Why did you mention those illegal portraits? What do you mean “older profession”? You’re not making any sense, and it’s all simply causing me to worry as I try and make sense of it all!’
‘Those pictures: they aren’t illegal.’
She took a deep breath.
‘Now, remember what I said about not jumping to false conclusions: but those people, Andraetra, are dead!’
*
‘Dead???
? I repeated doubtfully. ‘But – they all looked so alive! They were doing things! Reading! With their families! Getting married, even!’
They weren’t pictures of people laid out ready for burial, the way we normally expect to see dead people. They didn’t have their eyes closed either: they were open, as if still looking out on life, looking towards a future.
In the wedding photo – wait!
Which one was the dead one? The groom? Or the bride – she didn’t have her veil drawn, which I might have expected if they really had posed the poor girl while she remained completely lifeless.
‘Grindfarg – that’s Señorat Holandros’s partner–’
As Katerina said this she shuddered, as if her meeting with this Grindfarg had not been a pleasant encounter. I noted that, unusually for her, she hadn’t granted him the courtesy of using any title.
– ‘well he’s the mortician: and he said that they have special stands, glazes for the eyes–’
‘Katerina! You still haven’t explained what all this has to do with Pavro! What do morticians and pictures of dead people have to do with Pavro?’
My tone was insistent now, even though I found it impossible to believe that Pavro could also be dead: why would Katerina and her parents seem so blissfully joyful if he were dead?
She grasped my hands excitedly, her eyes sparkling with elation.
‘Andraetra! All those were old portraits, taken long before the very latest innovations. Now, Grindfarg assures us, he can bring the dead back to life!’
*
Chapter 4
‘Back to life? Who needs bringing back to life?’
If Katerina had thought her comments were going to in some way reassure me everything was fine, she had been mistaken.
It sounded more and more to me as if Pavro had been killed in some way.
‘Not back to life. Awakened!’ Katerina insisted, as if talking to a naïve child.
‘Then he’s not dead? He’s just ill – asleep?’ I said hopefully.