THE END IS THE BEGINNING

 Who will mourn for the orphan, Richard Blaine? Will any speak words over his unmarked grave?

THE END IS THE BEGINNING

“One of the lessons of history is that nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.”

– Mr. Morton

 

The walk to Mr. Morton’s dining room was not a straight-ahead sort of endeavor.

The rows of books grew misty, nebulous with threats of unseen attacks, filled with low growls of hunger about to be appeased.

The landmarks by which I traversed the carpeted aisles were forbidden tomes that even I was not fool enough to peruse.

The iron-bound King in Yellow; the cursed Kitab al-Azif; the Gospel of Abelard (its only copy supposedly burned in 1121); 

the Manichaean Texts; and finally, the Sibylline Oracles erroneously thought to be still deep within the secured vaults of the Vatican.

By the time we reached the Door that was not a Door (don’t ask me to explain lest your sanity be frayed), 

the sun was smearing the sky with its bloody fingers as it sank into the grave of the black horizon.

A bit melodramatic I know but this was Samhain’s eve and a foretold cursed one at that.

The roof above the library tingled with the memories of spring rain and rustled with the echoes of soft snow falling from rare, crisp December nights. 

Silent as the rise of mercury in a thermometer, we slipped into the threatening darkness beyond the Door that was not a Door.

Up high from the far right corner, words danced from the shadows, “Has Horus fled from the battlefield so soon?”

“Seems like,” I whispered back.

“Good,” came the light reply. “The Master grows bored.”

“There are worse fates,” I grumbled, not meaning to be overheard.

“As you will soon find out,” laughed the soft reply as it faded into ever-receding echoes.

Miss Mayfair shot me a dark glance. “You take a girl to such nice parties.”

I shrugged. “You wanted to come, remember?”

“That was when I was young and foolish.”

“That was only days ago!”

“I’ve aged since then.”

“As I have listening to this drivel,” snapped Sister Ameal.

The encroaching darkness slowly ebbed like low tide in Hell.

And appropriately at that thought, one familiar figure stepped into view.

Marie Laveau.

I shivered.

There was a doom in the air, death on the chill wind, and no sure road to safety tonight.

Or just like every other night at St. Marok’s. But this one felt even more so than usual.

Marie Laveau was wearing what I called a “head-kerchief” just to irritate her. 

It was actually called a tignon.

A tignon is a series of headscarves or a large piece of material tied or 

wrapped around the head to form a kind of turban resembling a West African gélé.

She almost spit her words. “Leave it to you come in the back door.”

I smiled to match the temperature of her eyes. 

“Yes, the servants’ entrance. You’re familiar with it I hear.”

“I would curse you, but you already curse yourself by coming here … for a wretched Grunch!”

Helen murmured, “Call no one wretched for whom Christ died.”

Marie hissed like an angry cat. I almost expected her to hump her back.

“Won’t they miss you at Congo Square?”

She smiled wide. “I want to see what the Grey Man does to you tonight.”

As Miss Mayfair studied me with a worried look that almost carried weight, I said, “I’m rather curious myself.”

Marie Laveau turned to Sister Ameal. “Ain’t you got no words for me, nun?”

“Why waste words on someone so foolish as to never listen to her life?”

Marie wheeled about in a swirl of black skirt and white clenched teeth.

I was about to start after her, when the world blurred about us.

Abruptly, we were standing before the long oval table of Mr. Morton.

I smiled, “Impatient, are we?”

Morton stood slowly and regally. Dressed like Lord Byron, frilly jabot and everything. His thick blond hair cascaded to his wide shoulders.

The Mirror of Enigmas burned in my inside jacket pocket. I saw It as the undead thing it was.

“I preferred the Lord Byron look,” I said to wipe that smug smile off its face.

It smiled exposing fine white, filed teeth.

“One of the lessons of history is that nothing is often a good thing to do and always a clever thing to say.”

I shrugged. “No one has ever accused me of being clever.”

The man to Mr. Morton’s right laughed deep. I recognized him. Jacques St. Germaine. 

How was a vampire able to sit without harm in the presence of Miss Mayfair?

He laughed deeper, “Dans cette maison, tout est possible.”

Sister Ameal bored cold eyes into him. 

“Not everything is possible in this house, Count. A sow’s ear will never be a silk purse in this accursed abode.”

The nun flicked a glacial look to the finely dressed woman I recognized from a history book as Delphine Macarty Lalaurie.

It stated that she had died in Paris on December 7, 1849.

The elegantly dressed woman sneered, “Les insultes des tueurs ne me dérangent pas.”

Sister Ameal sneered back, “Those I was paid to kill were not bound in chains, Madame.”

I noticed Dapper Dan ease into the chamber as if he were not supposed to be here.

What was going on?

Mr. Morton shrugged. “Chained? Unchained? Slaves are still chattel to be used at the owner’s discretion.”

Dapper Dan’s face flinched as if it had been slapped. “The freedom to fight back means a great deal to those deprived of so much.”

Mr. Morton glared at Dapper Dan. “Sheep do not have the right to growl like wolves.”

Things were about to go to Hell … literally.

Though not prone to prayer, I felt that now was definitely the time for it.

‘Great Father of Us All, protect him!’

Morton hunched over as if stabbed and glowered at me. “You dare! Here, you pray! Here! You dare!”

Dan – I would no longer denigrate him with “Dapper” – stood tall.

“Yes, he dares. I have watched him all his life dare to stand between the weak and those you call wolves.”

He pulled himself up even taller, and I could have sworn his white “Mark Twain” suit glowed.

“And with my death, I dare, too!”

I had never seen him watching me.

You never know who’s watching. You could be encouraging, inspiring, and motivating so many without even knowing.

I wasn’t worth dying for.

Well, I would stand between the ultimate wolf and a noble “man” though few would call him that … but me.

Mr. Morton sneered, “Blaine, do you know what they will say over your unmarked grave?”

Dan said softly, “Well played. Any who knew him will say ‘Well played.’”

Helen Mayfair cried out, “Oh, dear, God!”

Everyone at the table leapt out of their chairs as their bodies smoldered as if about to burst into flames. They all fled the dining room.

Even Mr. Morton, whose body was actually flickering in flames.

Sister Ameal rasped, “Turn around, Richard Blaine.”

With all the thrill of facing a firing squad, I turned around.

Dan was nowhere to be seen.

Only his glowing white suit, empty as if he had been ….

“Translated,” hoarsely spoke Miss Mayfair as she continued:

“By faith Enoch was translated that he should not see death.  And was not found, because God had translated him: for before his translation he had this testimony: he pleased God.”

I studied Dan’s empty suit for long heartbeats and finally murmured, “Well played, Dan. Well played.”

 

“The real miracle is the love that inspires it. In this sense everything that comes from love is a miracle.”

– Helen Mayfair