P had been carved there.
The same letter the angel guarding the gates of Purgatory carves on Dante’s brow—representing peccatum, or sin awaiting purgation.
* * *
—
When their train reached the station, Browning joined Branagan and the other two policemen in a carriage driven by a Lancashire constable alerted in advance by telegraph to expect them. With the roads barely passable, their journey by carriage was filled with as many stops and starts as the train ride had been. At one point, they passed an overturned carriage in the snow. (Were those books spread out in the snow nearby?) A constable had to shovel away parts of snowbanks at several junctures in order to continue. Once at the gates of the sanatorium, they saw no sign that Holmes and Tennyson had arrived. It was impossible to know for sure; if there had been another carriage there recently, any traces of wheel tracks had been covered by fresh snow. (Unless, thought Browning . . . the overturned carriage?)
During their train ride, Browning had shared with the eager constable his fears that the next outburst of violence could happen at any moment. “If Sibbie is set on completing the terraces of Purgatory, there are three more beyond the ones we know they have staged: terrace five holds the Avaricious and Prodigal together; terrace six, the Gluttonous; and the final region, terrace seven, represents the cleansing of excessive love, or lust that all souls must undergo.”
“Our very presence could prompt the next death,” Browning now added as they trudged up the hill to enter the property.
“What do you mean?” Branagan asked.
“I believe that must be what happened with the death of Reuben Loring—their purgation of the Wrathful. Sibbie and Fallow pluck victims from their followers. When they heard we were on the grounds, they did not want to risk being stopped, and they wanted us to witness the demonstration.”
Browning stopped midstride.
“Mr. Browning?” Branagan said, urging him to come faster. “You look like you’ve seen a—”
“It’s Loring, Constable. I’m just remembering—we were searching for him, and after his death we assumed we inadvertently led the perpetrator to him, at the time, of course, thinking it was Gabriel we led there. But Loring saw us coming. He saw us. What if Loring was the one who knew his death had to happen quickly before it could be stopped by our presence?”
“What do you—how does that make any sense?”
It made all the sense in the world. It fit the pieces together perfectly.
Browning thought about the period of Gabriel’s life after Lizzie died when the painter-poet would talk about his thoughts of his own death, and thought back to a particular day Browning took a walk with Gabriel and a group of friends above a scenic basin of water. The place was nicknamed the Devil’s Punchbowl. Browning had noticed a look on Gabriel’s face that day, a glare in his eyes, and suddenly knew that Gabriel was, at that very moment, contemplating jumping into oblivion. The edge was slippery, and there would be no way to save him. Gabriel put his arm into Browning’s, and Browning knew why. It was Gabriel’s way to choose living. Browning knew the look and the feeling in his friend, because he had experienced the same ones after Ba died. It was the longing that struck the living to know death, to be purified and completed by it.
Browning finally answered Branagan. “Loring—and all of the others—the dying participated in these deaths, Constable. In the Inferno, Dante meets souls who fight their fate; in Purgatory, the shades embrace it, they want to be seen and known and remembered—‘remember me, remember me,’ they’re constantly pleading—it is their way to salvation. Their only way. The victims have been accomplices in this, herded by Fallow, mesmerized by Sibbie.”
“Yes!” Branagan seemed to see it all in a flash, and shouted out to the others to hurry.
“Thirteen hundred!”
“What, Browning?”
“Thirteen hundred and 1870!” But he didn’t have time to explain.
The former textile mill—the sanatorium so removed from the chaos of the city—the otherworldly utopia: this place now conveyed a menace that Browning and the policemen feared far more than any dark, bloodstained alleyway in London.
* * *
—
Standing at the rear of the buildings, Ironhead Herman took a big breath. He didn’t relish the idea of this place having to disappear, however much trouble it had given him. The Phillip Sanatorium had been a valuable purchaser of their goods. It was here, at this habitat for fanatics, that the young woman and the minister who followed her orders had collected massive amounts of smuggled opium. Herman and his superiors provided so much opium to Sibbie and Fallow’s flock that, in conjunction with incidents abroad affecting the trade from India, the overall supply of opium to apothecaries and other dispensaries around London had been periodically reduced.
The drug had changed the reality of people in a way similar to the religions of old. It made the men and women who habitually used it think they were floating through fire, they were dominating the sky, instead of being crushed by the ruthless modern world surrounding them. The need for opium was as fierce as the trade for it.
Herman lifted his walking stick, topped by the grotesque golden beast head, to signal his minions, who swiftly spread out in different directions of the so-called sanatorium. Herman was, by his own assessment, a patient man. But in his way of life, an associate could quickly become a liability. An ally overnight became an example.
Herman’s team finished inserting wires into blocks of clay spread out in inconspicuous places around the buildings. He thought about the Fenian fools who had purchased phosphorus from him and built explosives that practically screamed that they did it. As Herman waited, he examined the carved head at the top of his walking stick. It was a representation of the kylin, a mythological beast that would punish the wicked with fire and destruction. The kylin was said to be able to walk on water without causing a ripple. Herman always liked that. No matter how many people were about to perish here tonight, no traces of Herman or the powerful forces he represented would remain. Herman would go on, untouched, unpunished.
XXV
Christina knelt on the ground. She had thoroughly searched the passageway that ended in a locked iron door. She’d even torn apart the platters of food looking for something she might be able to use to free herself from her chamber or to break through to Gabriel’s even grimmer compartment. But there was nothing. The only option that was left for her was the one she’d relied upon her whole life when everything around her fell apart, when family peace faltered: to pray.
Pain shot through her from her knees on the hard ground, but she did not stop. She knelt even lower, prayed harder: prayed to God that her brother would not succumb to his starvation and weakness, would find some of his lost strength that had been buried years before with Lizzie; prayed that the family curse that never quite allowed the Rossettis to feel more than exiles in London vanished without taking Gabriel with it; prayed that all the things she had given up in her life to remain devoted to God would now be brought to account.
She prayed to God without questioning his ways. She trusted.
Here, in this dark corner of a forsaken dungeon, she allowed herself to cry—tears flowing that she would never permit to be seen. When she opened her eyes, she stared in amazement at what she saw.
A feather.
A single feather tucked into a crevice in the ground. At first, it was just the novelty that attracted her. When she handled it, she realized something more. This feather’s shaft or calamus, the quill that had given voice to so many generations of writers, was so strong and sharp it drew blood from her fingertip.
* * *
—
A massive ball of fire erupted from the boiler house on the far east end of the sanatorium. This was followed by another, two structures down, then a series of explosions on the opposite row of sheds and outbuildings
. Flames jumped and crept from structure to structure, as black smoke poured out into the sky.
The bursting flames were a striking contrast with the cover of snow, some of which began to wash away in streams of boiling water.
Fallow charged out from the chapel, his heart dropping into his stomach. “Ironhead Herman,” he gasped. “He’s waging war on us, Sibbie. We have to get everyone to work together to put it out, get the buckets from the greenhouse! Save what’s left!”
Behind him, Sibbie walked at a much more leisurely pace, as if visiting a gallery instead of a raging conflagration. She quietly replied: “No.”
He turned to her in a state of profound fear. Fear for his safety, yes. But not only that.
He feared what would become of his mind if all they had built was suddenly taken. Since the tragedy that befell his congregation as a young preacher, and the despair that followed it, the Phillip Sanatorium’s bold mission was the first time he felt that thrill in his blood he used to experience at the pulpit. The ability to wield his influence to change people. Sibbie made it possible.
The ecstasies of that thrill had overtaken him upon the first purgatorial sacrifice of Jasper Morton, which he watched from a safe distance behind the crowd of bystanders. He knew everything would change then. How Fallow trembled internally when the three poets, Christina, Tennyson, and Holmes, came to speak to them in London. He felt a pit of anger form at their attempted incursion. He tried to follow the example of nearby Sibbie’s tranquillity, held on to her for strength. They had known investigations would begin, starting after the discovery of Morton’s martyrdom and, as a precaution, he and Sibbie had come to London to clear away any traces of connections between themselves and Morton and other members of their group who were cleansing their souls. At Reuben Loring’s crowded boardinghouse, they hurriedly ransacked the soldier’s papers and books and took all documents that could have linked him to the sanatorium, then brought them in sacks to burn in the church’s boiler room. Loring had been studying the cantos of Purgatory narrating the terrace chosen for him by Sibbie—the Wrathful. (Fallow had missed Loring’s copy of Purgatory, kept in a special place separate from the rest of his books.) As the London police began to look for clues into the earlier deaths, Loring and other devotees had begun to flee for the sanatorium.
Now that the flames were spreading over their great sanctuary, across the structures of the former mill, Fallow grabbed Sibbie’s arm.
“Have you gone mad?” he declared. “The whole place will be destroyed. There’s no way to send for the fire engines to reach us with the road conditions.”
She watched the flames chase each other, consuming everything they had worked to build. She tipped her head back, as though being warmed by the morning sun. “Let it come. Let us all enter the final passage. To be cleansed.”
“You—” Fallow stopped himself and stared at her. “You had word sent to Herman that you were back.”
She did not answer.
“That is how Herman knew to come back, and that is why you told Herman not to wait a week for payment, to expect it at sunset when you knew it would not be there. Tomorrow is the thirteenth of April, when Dante is transported to Paradise from the top of Mount Purgatory.”
“Not just the thirteenth of April, but Holy Wednesday—just as it was in the calendar of 1300 when Dante ascended. The calendars of 1300 and 1870 are the same. It is all aligned. All will be cleansed.”
“You expected this. Didn’t you? You knew when people cross the opium smugglers Herman represents that he has a reputation for committing arson in their homes and places of business, as warning to others. The seventh terrace, the last purgation, the passage through fire . . . You anticipated this coming all along?”
“I knew you would not have the heart for it,” she said cruelly. “You see enemies around us but there are none. Brother Herman was a divine instrument.”
“Think about what you are giving up. Through the power of what we have created, there are more and more people—people of all ages, from all parts of society, to bolster our ranks. We can fill England and beyond with our believers.”
“When I was taken away, Brother Orin, you became too interested in the feeling of your own control. You surrounded yourself with beauty, you tasted power. The true power in this has always been to reveal the way to the light for all humanity. To reveal the end.”
Fallow stumbled over himself as he scrambled away.
* * *
—
Browning was shouting to the policemen, “I know how to find the fifth terrace!” just as the first explosions took place. Browning and two of the policemen were knocked over by the force, and the other men held out their arms to shield themselves.
Branagan pulled Browning to his feet. “The fifth terrace?”
Browning, winded, took a moment to find his voice again. In the fifth terrace of Purgatory, he explained, Dante discovers the Avaricious and Prodigal, their wrists and ankles bound. “Dante tells us they are placed facedown because they are not meant to see the sky—not meant to see God.”
Branagan called out to the others: “Look for enclosed buildings with no skylights or high windows.”
Browning hurried to keep up with the policemen. Narrowing their choices, Constable Branagan used a small battering ram to knock through the door of the woodshed. Branagan turned on the cyclops lamp on his belt to break through the darkness. He and Browning could make out two people, one male and one female, tied up just as Browning predicted.
He recognized the man: the first person they had spoken to when they initially visited the Phillip Sanatorium, the man with the distinctively shaped head, something like an onion. He had been digging or weeding then, but Browning now understood he wasn’t doing either. As one of the shades explained to Dante on that terrace of their misdeeds: We did not lift our eyes on high but set our sight on earthly things. He was preparing for his coming purgation.
“I think they’ve lost consciousness,” said Branagan. “We need another pair of hands to drag them . . .”
Browning ran back out to call for help. “Over here—”
Another round of explosions. The small structure erupted into flames, consuming the tied-up victims in an instant.
Browning lost sight of Branagan, too.
“Constable,” Browning cried out. “Branagan?”
Branagan had leapt away, avoiding the flames by a hair, and dropped into the snow where he rolled to Browning’s feet.
A fresh cry reached them: “Here!”
Browning spun around at the sound of the voice.
“What was it, Browning?” Branagan asked as Browning helped him to his feet.
“That voice. It’s Christina Rossetti.”
* * *
—
Christina had heard a click. She had inserted the sharp quill of the feather into the lock of the iron door. Twisting it, turning it, pressing it further, not so roughly that it would snap. Then: click. It worked. What was so peculiar was not the absolutely incredible fact that she had picked the lock and released the bolt with a feather, of all things on earth. What was so peculiar was that Christina had complete confidence it would work—as soon as she held the feather, she knew it would and she knew why. She wanted it to be due to a lifetime of devout prayer but knew it wasn’t so simple.
The feather, in a sense, had come from Mount Purgatory.
She rushed up a set of crumbling stone stairs, finding no access to the compartment that held Gabriel below. Instead, she found herself outside just as more explosions and fires started. Christina heard voices from somewhere nearby.
“Here! Over here!” she cried.
“Christina?” the voice bellowed—a rousing and wonderful voice vibrating in the air.
Browning was cresting the hill between them when they met.
“Gabriel is trapped. He’s in an awful s
tate, Mr. Browning, please help!”
Though there had not been an explosive detonated in the carpenter’s shop that held Gabriel, flames from the nearest structure spread to its perimeter.
Browning signaled for Branagan and the other men, who trudged as fast as they could through the deep snow. Christina tried to keep up, but she felt weakened down to her bones from her captivity and the lingering effects of the opiates. She dropped into the snow. Browning looked back at her, but she gestured to him to continue to Gabriel.
Browning and the other men disappeared over the hill. Christina, shivering to the bone, strained to stand up and fell again. A hand came into her view to offer help. It was Sibbie’s.
Christina hesitated before accepting.
“I am overjoyed, dear sister, that you were witness to a purification. To your brother’s.”
“The feather.”
“Feather?”
“You left it for me to find. You tested me. You knew I would pray, that I would kneel when I did. You knew I would see it where you placed it.”
“The shades of Purgatory each learn that only through prayer does the Divine Will move us forward,” Sibbie replied. “Here we learn to live by devotion just as you do. You are one of the pure ones. Oh, I know more about you through Gabriel than you might imagine, Sister Christina. By praying, you found salvation.”
“The feather. In one of Dante’s dreams during Purgatory, a golden-feathered eagle lifts him up and carries him, and when he wakes he has moved closer to the mountaintop.”
“What was it you thought about as you looked upon Lillian Brenner’s face?”
The deadhouse. Christina had kept her gaze away from the other onlookers, rushing away in tears and nearly colliding with . . . Flashes of faces returned to her. One of them was Sibbie.
Even with all she now knew about Sibbie, Christina could not stop herself from finding her voice and words persuasive and commanding. She answered without wanting to. “I thought about her eyes, thought that one of them seemed to be opening, to burst its wires open, to watch and judge us as we were watching and judging her.”