Mousetrap
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Nina was puzzled. With all the expense that had been poured into this "seasonal remembrance of an angelic presence from this earth untimely ripped" (or such was the bulky phrase used to publicize this year's Lily Waterbury memorial pageant), why didn't Waterbury want to attend?
Vesper returned her question with a glance of cool superiority. "Simon never attends rehearsals." She breathed on her nails, buffing them slowly on her silk blouse. "Don't worry, my dear. He trusts my judgment. I imagine that's a professional circumstance you've never encountered. He has a great deal of faith in my exquisite taste."
Nina scowled. It was just like Vesper to step in at the last minute, only weeks before the public performance. It was Nina who had overseen all the tiny details. Checking the script for continuity. Signing purchase orders for an ever-growing roster of necessaries. Fighting with the city to secure the site of the performance. Reviewing contracts with media for nationwide coverage.
And where was Vesper during all that? Not helping out. Not pitching in. And now she would sweep in with her 'exquisite taste' and take the credit for a job well done.
Nina clenched her jaw. She must put her petty resentments aside for the moment. Vesper's presence gave her a distinct advantage. Nina could watch her at work, without seeming to spy. She could observe her response to the pageant to see if it offered any clues to Vesper's involvement with Simon. The plays the thing ..., Nina mused contentedly, pleased with her own knowledge of the classics. Go ahead, Vesper dear. Give me a good show.
As if on cue, Vesper rose to her feet, taking command. "All right, everyone," she called out, briskly. "We're ready to begin. I'd like to see the presentation, picking up from the end of the processional."
At her command, the actors and puppeteers rushed into place, swirls of peach organza swirling in their wake. Stagehands, clad all in black, noiselessly wheeled in a seamlessly constructed representation of a Grecian forest glen. Graceful reeds encircled a clear pool. A spray of delicate, white flowers bent to view themselves in the mirror-like surface.
The entire set appeared to be wrought in fabric, voluminous puffs of smooth, sleek cloth bunched across a rolling landscape. Dark green ringed the crystal pool, fading to pale lime at the horizon, and then blended into the delicate peach that represented the early dawn that surrounded the scene.
Waiting in the wings, Tim Phizer shivered in his thin, flimsy kirtle. Another much-needed paycheck, he thought as he rubbed his arms absently, Brought to you by another Simon Waterbury extravaganza. Last year's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade had been uncomfortable, but this was torture. The air in the rehearsal warehouse was cold. The water in the pond was even colder. Columbus Circle in mid-November was sure to be colder still. "I'll be cutting glass before this day is through," he whined quietly to himself, rubbing his poor, cold nipples. He winced as the production manager called 'places,' and grudgingly dropped to his knees, crawling beneath the creaking set piece.
Vesper settled back into her seat as the pageant began. Oh, not those Greeks again, she moaned inwardly as countless be-kirtled actors traipsed across the glen. Simon had an absolute obsession with Greek mythology. He'd already staged the rape of Persephone. The rape of Europa. The transformation of Daphne in to a tree. Enough is enough already! she silently screamed. Young maiden rapt from this world to an alternate existence.. Simon's performative self-indulgence was sometimes too much to be believed.
The opening strains chimed, and fifteen maidens, clad in shimmering golden togas, danced out across the taffeta plains. They whirled and dipped, bringing forth a silver clad maiden, taller than the rest, a delicate ballet dancer.
Vesper delicately stifled a yawn as the silver lass' encountered an older lover -- a large fellow blessed with goat's horns -- who courted her awkwardly with pawing hooves. After a brief formalized dance of golden-grain-girls, silver lass, goat-horned lover and a large chorus of grinning skeletons, the stage cleared.
A crash of cymbals, and slashes of green taffeta gave way to roiling billows of red satin. A figure rose from the depths of the silky flames, a delicate young man in a kirtle, with nipples that could cut glass.
What a charming looking young man, Vesper thought lazily. Simon has such predictable taste in boys.
And then she froze. And she didn't move while the silver lass reentered and danced a delicate pas de deux with the boy. Or while the goat-man slunk in to watch the dance of seduction from behind a slender grove of trees. Or when the delicate boy ever so delicately pulled the silver lass to the edge of the fiery gorge and threw her in.
It wasn't until the delicate lad immersed himself in the icy depths of the pond and reemerged as a sweet delicate lass that Vesper moved. And then it was but the slightest of movements, as she caught her breath and clenched her stomach.
But Nina saw it.
***
Leia sat cross-legged on the couch, batting Chad from her. He seemed to have formed some strange attachment to her as a result of his hypnotic trance. He wanted always to sit with his head in her lap.
"Yes, honey, that's very sweet," she cooed absently, pushing aside his shiny, bald head. "But why don't you settle down and watch the stories with Mama Leia." She turned his head around forcibly to face the t.v.
She had learned that nothing soothed Chad like watching "Days of our Lives." He seemed calmer and more lucid at the end of each episode, seemingly close to putting together the tattered fragments of his rational mind.
A fortunate coincidence, since Leia herself never missed an episode. The daytime drama filled her with a sense of completion. It projected her romantic notion of how life should be, a glittering, dramatic daydream with big moments and elegant costumes. She usually dressed up to watch, clad in a vivid oriental dressing grown and satin turban to heighten the feeling of glamour. She had amassed quite of collection of 'soap clothes,' as she called them, a different outfit for each day of the week.
"Let's give a little watch, and see if that jogs our memory at all." She ran her carefully manicured nails over the sleek surface of his scalp and tickled him behind the ears the way he seemed to like -- just like her kitty, her little Victor. Enraptured by the sweeping events unfolding before her, Leia became almost weepy.
"Soon you'll remember everything. And I'll be waiting here to learn it all. And it will be grand," she flourished. "Everything will be perfect. We will learn where Simon has stashed the loot. We'll be millionaires. My little kitty will come home. I'll have elegant gowns. And turbans. Lots of turbans. And this," she gestured grandly to the scrap of satin encircling her brow, "Is the turban I will be wearing when I get Victor back!!"
Chad, unfazed, dropped a long string of drool on her knee.
"Find Simon Moffat and you'll find Christian Redding. Find Simon Moffat and you'll find Christian Redding. Find Simon Moffat and you'll find Christian Redding."
"That's a good boy," Leia cooed, patting his head as she reached for a pad and pen. "Keep talking."
****
Will leaned back against the comfortable bucket seats of the Saturn. He sighed softly. Finally, out of Iowa.
"I feel as if we are back to the beginning," he offered to Laura as they sped through freshly harvested fields. "It's been a long time since this has felt like a road trip." He pulled a box of Dunkin Donuts off the dashboard and daintily nibbled at a brown and orange frosted donut, carefully avoiding the plastic pumpkin nestled in the icing.
"You're telling me. I feel like I'm leaving home for the first time -- like I'm right back at my freshman year in college. It's funny how seasons can do that to you: take you back to some earlier time just because it's the same time of year."
"It's more than that, though," Will added hollowly. He seemed pained for a moment. "I can't explain it. I have this feeling of ... not quite deja vu. Like I've made this journey before, but maybe in reverse. Or maybe it wasn't me." He seemed almost frightened.
"Now don't get psychic on me," she teased him. "I need you rational, conscious and intact to help me find this next clue. We've got four more hours to Chimney Rock. Why not pass the time by reviewing our current chapter. Book me, boy!"
Will cleared his throat and began.
How Violet would survive the day she did not know. Her passion, now inflamed, shook her to very core of her being. Harlowe, dear Harlowe. So manly a figure. Such clear, noble eyes. He stirred in her desires she had never known. Like a volcanic well of flame within her, deep and churning.
Did no one sense her passion? Did no one see how deeply he moved her? How she longed to fling herself at him, there ... there ... in the midst of the Great Hall? She was sure the glow on her cheek, the dancing glimmer in her eye, would reveal her precious secret. She quaked at the very thought of him.
Day gave way to night, but slowly, so slowly, it nearly drove her mad.
At last, darkness creeped from the dim, recessed corners of the castle and spread over all the earth. The lark's song gave way to the cry of the owl, and whirring of crickets filled the air. Violet carefully bundled her few belongings -- precious remembrances of her few happy hours -- in a silken kerchief and readied herself for flight. She donned her long, hooded cloak, carefully covering her head. She nestled within the folds of the garment. So warm, so safe. She prayed silently that it would shield her from detection.
Stealthily, she slipped from the protection of her curtained bed and made her way to the great oaken chamber door. Carefully, ever so carefully, she worked the latch. Thank heavens she had the presence of mind to apply oil to the hinges earlier that day. It gave easily and silently. Hugging the wall, she crept out into the hallway and down the servants' stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she cautiously leaned around the corner into the kitchen to see if the coast was clear.
What was that?! A heavy hand on her shoulder! Poor Violet bit into her lip to stifle a scream, but found her terror melting into bliss as she felt a warm, soft mouth on hers. It was Harlowe, young Harlowe, waiting for her arrival. Floods of pleasure rushed through her as she felt his firm, young body pressed against her. Just as she began to think she would reach the point of no return, her young lover pulled back, placing his hand on her lips. She sensed his injunction to silence as clearly as if he had spoken it.
Gently, he took her hand and led her to the door leading into the courtyard. Whisking her to a waiting steed, he placed her behind him on the saddle. The mighty stallion reared up and took off through the night, leaving but a puff of dust in his wake. Sweet Violet clutched at her lovers waist, simultaneously fearing her safety and enjoying the sense of the his rippled muscles beneath his rough shirt.
Violet leaned in closer, putting her lips near Harlowe's ear. "What is our path?" she asked, her voice broken with terror and excitement.
"We will take the straightest path to Lopellop." His voice was clear and strong over the thundering clatter of the horse's hooves. "Aloft the Yenak mountains, through Starvation Pass." A dangerous journey, but Violet trusted her Harlowe more than she feared the threat of highwayman and bandit.
Up and up they climbed, carefully skirting narrow gorges and deep plummeting crevasses. Through dark forests and along crystal rivers they traversed, stopping not for rest or sustenance. The hours of the nighttime waned, till early dawn found them atop the highest peak of the Yenak range. Harlowe reined his steed, and turned the beast to face the road they had traveled.
"Look back, my love," he directed Violet, gesturing to the valley beneath them. "Behold your father's domain. A land as wracked, despoiled and corrupt as himself."
Violet turned and looked and beheld utter devastation. Crops lay withered in the field. Once fecund rivers had been transformed to dusty, barren beds. Carcasses dotted the landscape, grey dust and swirls of smoke obscuring the clear lines of the horizon.
"The land reflects the barren soil that is his soul. His cruel and heartless corpse is mirrored in the dead that litter his lands. It is a site you can behold only from beyond, from above. You must reach the highest peak to behold the lowest valley -- the pit of man's corruption, the inhumanity of man."
Violet looked, and beheld, and wept.
Be sure to tune in on
Thursday, November 4,
for the haunting and visually stimulating
Chapter 40
of
THE WEBSERIAL
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