The curse of being alive-1. Stephen

The transformation was painful, yet that word alone does not describe the terrible stages I went through, neither can it paint the picture of those abominable hours and minutes of pain, excruciating my whole being, echoing in each and every corner of my skin; and even the marrow in my very bones cried out in anguish, torment and absolute inhumanity of the condition I was in.

How it all began, I now remember not, yet in my soul there is a deep void filled with shards and rags of former memories of mine, most of which I cannot even trace to their original source. Is it the illness, its aftermath, or the side effect of the medications I’ve been prescribed, or is it a game played inquisitively by my mind, played with such cunning grace and deceitfulness, that no human being professing itself a doctor, will ever be able to discern it from the actual symptom of an unknown yet dreaded ailment?..

Get thee gone, memory, flow in another direction and let me abide by my own laws, my own ideas. Get thee gone; get back into the recess, from whence you came to haunt me. Torment me no longer and leave my universe which is already broken and is crumbling into pieces before my very eyes this instant as I am writing these words. Who would have thought — would my exquisite mother, a woman of rarest beauty and wit, or my father— a distinguished scholar and artist, a man of great mind and spirit— have thought that their only son would ever fall in his own eyes, sink so low? Would they marvel at this epic damnation, or would they curse their prodigal son who had attempted to break through the transparent walls of bookish knowledge? Would any of them come to my aid now, when I no longer bear any resemblance to the boy they’ve raised to be a musical, philosophical and artistic genius, the golden boy of their midday slumber, the child of beauty itself, the child of late summer winds and swiftly falling rains? Would the images of old come to their minds to torture them? That I do not know; they are both long dead. It has been twenty years since they abandoned me, and fifteen since the day I first traversed to the other, darker side of existence. No doubt you have heard many a tale similar to mine, yet I cannot grant that. Surely, you will find some familiar parallels here, to the things you’ve read or heard, or seen before, but that is the way of the world, one of its multiform, subtle ways which are unknown to human race.

My story is that of a person who…but let me share it first, so you can easily deduce my personal history yourself. Pity me not in the end, as I knew long before I had plunged into that abyss, that I would perish and be gone, and there is no regret in my soul, but only a softly stinging bitterness and shame that is no louder or bolder than a whisper amidst the nightfall. The reasons I will not mention here, but in due time you will see them, all revealed and opened before your eyes, as I see them now. Let me not tarry no longer; it is time to begin what I have been longing to tell for years. For ages. Let me not keep you, for in my agitation I keep no track of time, and it can finish me off when it pleases with no warning or sign. Let me not keep you therein; the door into my madness is thrust open, as is the gate of my life — blessed be he who dares enter, for Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.

Chapter one

I was born long time ago, a son of an ardent believer and a well-read man, a man of no usual personality and character, an artist, whose name I will not utter here. My baptismal name was of simplicity, yet compared to all the flowery names popular at court, it stood quite modestly and imperceptibly, having in its musicality a certain charm which many old names do possess — Stephen was I called, and that name rang its lonely chimes in the vast, darkened rooms and corridors of my ancestral home. My mother, to whose fancy I own the pleasure to be granted with the wretched name that she thought romantic, was my birth a daughter of an old and noble family, and a great beauty — the loveliest of all children her parents had begotten. Her three sisters had fallen victims to the pox in their childhood, yet she survived blooming as a wild rose amongst the crooked thorns; her elder brother, my beloved uncle Christopher, was an honorable man, — at least to his family’s mind he was certainly that. The year I was born, Christopher was five years older than my mother at the time, and she was but fifteen, having married my father by arrangement in her thirteenth year. My father, seventeen years her senior, treated her well and probably loved her passionately, although he never attested that, being by nature a serious, somber and somewhat gloomy man with swings of mood more appropriate for an actor than a former minister; yet in his youth as I had been told, he was studious and ambitious, and very talented as well, and that alone justified his emotionally unstable nature. My mother loved him ardently and loyally served as his constant muse, being a central figure in all the paintings he did, and those were many; adorning the walls and halls of my house they hung, in all their Moresque, filigreed splendor, watching me wherever I went. In my father’s rooms multitudes of copies of my mother stared from the walls, shelves and niches, her wax and clay identical twins crowded you as soon as you entered the premises. To tell you the truth, it looked frightening and suspiciously maniacal, as did my father in moments of his obsession with depicting my mother — and she grew tired of his constant desire of immortalizing her by my third year — by that alone you can measure her patience that had lasted five long years. I suppose that was mainly the reason of avoiding my father whenever he expressed a notion of painting or sculpting her again. She left him in his topmost turret of the house, working with almost a feverish passion, as if some unseen fires like those of Gehenna were burning his flesh prompting him to work thus turning him into a tempted saint or a martyred beast. And he was neither.

He had left the Church prior to his marriage to my mother, and it was again the fault of his moodiness and zealousness; yet he was never a priest, but a man to whom the title and honors were passed by his father. Right honorable they called him, and still nothing honorable could be seen in him, although at times he did seem gentle, convivial, pleasant and charming, standing by my mother’s side in his perfectly tailored clothes and smiling. He was there, downstairs in the lobby, surrounded by people, the guests who adored his works of art, when a severe headache, a sure sign of the future illness, had broken out, causing him to collapse on the floor, crying and shouting of pain. Temporarily blind, he was taken to his bed chamber where he had lain motionless, moaning for days, pleading with everyone not to open the shutters or produce any sounds. He was thirty five at the time, my mother — eighteen, a lovely maiden of rarest beauty and modesty, and I was two years of age, a much beloved son of a splendidly looking couple. This evening became my first complex memory, and marked the beginning of a period of a seeming fatherlessness of mine, yet I had no idea about the real state of the things then, remembering only the pale man, reclining on the huge ebony bed in a shaded chamber, who smiled vaguely seeing me clutching my mother’s dress somewhere in the corner. After his vision had returned, his voice lost its pleasantness, becoming harsh and distant; withdrawing from his family, he secluded himself in his studio, painting and painting hours and days away. What my mother felt, I do not know, for she had never told me, and I can but assume she was lost at first, not being able to cope on her own. That was the precise moment when my uncle came to her assistance, helping her out as much as could, and providing diversions for me. It was through his hands that wondrous toys came to me, and it was his voice that had traced the paths of my childhood education, full of songs, rhymes and stories. I was a very happy child indeed, thanks to my mother and my splendid uncle.

Still, my memory had my father’s image in it; that pale, tall man dressed in black satin and velvet of the best quality— the same man who used to creep into my nursery while I was fast asleep to watch me sleep — as my mother had told me. He still sat at the head of the table, at times, when his condition allowed him, and by his demand the lighting was cut short to mere five candles, and the window shutters closed, and the servants moved as shadows not to trouble his hearing or sight, as he was still very easily shaken by smallest things. His vulnerable state made him refrain from all the joys of family life, to quit the table after having spent barely ten minutes there and disappear for months during which our solemnly looking butler Josiah was the only person granted the permission of attending to his master, visited his chambers and fed, clothed and took care of my father. Since his last appearance at the table my mother took to speaking of him in a barely audible whisper, and her face wore the mask of a permanent fright and trouble on its mildly aligned features. She called him ‘His worship’, or ‘that man’ or ‘he’, ‘my husband’ — never using his name, and I became used to this slightly awkward situation of having a mother, an uncle and ‘that man’ instead of a father, quite easily. However rare his visits downstairs were, he demanded sometimes that I was to be taken upstairs to his turret, and there I would go, clutching my mother’s flowing sleeve of pale silk, to see That Man, my father — a tormented man of steely voice, so distant that it seemed a memory of the voice, the echo of an echo of a memory, his burning eyes scrutinizing me, his pale twisted lips scolding me, his bony fingers shaking, ruffling his greyish hair that used to be of rich brown color. My father didn’t approve the manner my mother had adopted in bringing me up, he called it silly and whenever speaking to me, did it in an unpleasant, strict and dry way, never looking at me, as if addressing the candelabra or a bookshelf over my head, which made me doubt he had ever knew of my existence, treating me no better than a shadow. At first, when I was younger, that scornful manner grieved me enormously and I cried endlessly burying my face in my mother’s lap, thinking my father didn’t love me. She consoled me by saying sweet, meaningless things you always use to converse with a young child, and for a time it had an effect on me yet I have grown up not with a thought of my ingenious father who needed all the time in the world to work on his unearthly masterpieces but a madman who never had any affection for me, although of that I have never spoken to anyone. It was lurking in the back of my head, it was totally irrelevant, and it was just a decoration, a sick twist in the plot, nothing more.

I never complained about that fact, rather I abode by it, and continued living in my own fairy tale, vaguely resembling that of an enchanted young prince imprisoned in an equally enchanted castle full of strange and grim things and creatures of monstrous appetite adept in stealing and snatching everything they could.

By my fifth year I understood that something about my father was strangely morbid, gory and ghastly to such an extent that he began appearing in my nightmares, laughing madly and dabbling bloody, crimson paint all over his clothes, room and innumerable canvas. His face, distorted by devilish laughter, horrifying in its menacing features and insanely glinting eyes, haunted me for years until I reached my maturity, never changing at all. I never told my mother about the dismal visions of mine, for fear of inflicting something vile on her, as she was always close by, soothing and watching over me, and my slightest cough or unwillingness to play or exercise my pony made her almost frantic. As soon as my gentle mother taught me to read and write, and it had happened in my sixths year, I started my journal — a wonderfully made, leather-bound volume with thousands of rustling pages, given to me by my uncle, who knew so much and could procure anything (as it then seemed to me) — from marvelous books to talking dragons.

Swiftly, my imagination inked its way into the pages of the folio, tracing maps, building castles and painting heroes of yet undiscovered realms. My mother and uncle aided me in that journey, each in his own way, but in a most gracious and magical manner. Christopher who by the way looked exactly as a knight in shining armor, with his auburn-golden curls of silk and heroic profile, although lacking the armor itself, — sent me books and albums full of pictures, so captivating and alluring, that I could spent nights and nights gazing at them and turning the brightly colored pages until my head filled with drowsiness of a mindtraveller. Books were the excuse he had used to visit our house weekly, and each of his visits was a new chapter in my overnight adventures in faraway lands, and my mother would glow each time my uncle’s smile flickered, lighting up our darkened dining room, and her beautiful eyes would gleam and sparkle as candlelit champagne does in crystal glasses. They were close, those two— my dashing uncle and my fairy-like mother, they had so much in common, that they could easily had been taken for twins, and I bathed in their light and love, rejoicing every moment. Little did I know of human relationships, little did I care — I had everything I needed by my side, and even the absence of my father, who was omnipresent at the same time — and the abrupt cries as well as fits of laughter and splashing paint were heard, echoing, bouncing off the walls of the empty galleries, coming from the Turret, being the only signs of my father’s existence — by that time he had stopped coming down from his rooms upstairs and neither my mother, nor I was going to do anything about it. She knew too well the stubborn nature of the man who was her husband, and I, to be perfectly honest with you, never loved him. Throughout my life I saw him perhaps five or six times in all, due to his being a recluse, a hermit who preferred his palettes, canvas and brushes to living people. His unprecedented, unpredictable and incontrollable fits of temper forced him to burn his last paintings, and no one will ever know who the subject of endless rows of ornate frames was. But that came years after, and meanwhile I was growing up rapidly in my mother’s care and under my uncle’s protection, a happy, and dauntless, child of auburn curls and blazing bluish-green eyes my mother called ‘oceanique’, and my uncle, smiling always told me I had the eyes of the wanderer, the poet. To be honest, I was but a spitting image of my uncle, or that of my mother — nothing of my father had ever shown up in my face or outward appearance. Where my father was gaunt and dark, I was fairness itself, and nothing in me pointed to our blood connection with once famous and handsome courtier, clearly showing who my mother was, meanwhile, as I had inherited all the ancestral features that had once marked her family as the perfectly beautiful one. Thus I grew, and thus it was.

On the day of my seventh birthday, however, the things began to get complicated and intricate, opening up the rooms behind the doors, showing me things that should have remained closed and unknown until the moment when my mind would have been ready for seeing them, and which is far more important, to understand them as they were to be understood. But never is Time a patient visitor, never it waits for us to come by ready, and so it is no surprise that I saw what I saw that day of all days.

As all children of tender age between seven and ten, I was close to my mother— so much so that at times I had crept into her bed in early morning hours or whenever my nightmares were too unbearable. That was easy to accomplish since our bedrooms were divided by mere ten steps across the hall. Barefoot, in my nightgown (as it was the custom those days) flapping around my knobby knees, and my favorite companion the Rabbit, clutched in my hands, I would venture across the darkened hall so swiftly and softly that not a single board of the oaken floor creaked and not a single tapestry hanging on the wall would flutter, I would make my way into my mother’s room, climbed up the velvet covered stairs, and finding my mother among vanilla perfumed sheets and blankets, cuddle up to her, until her arms were flung around me. Then, I would sleep peacefully at last, and no nightmares of mine ever dared to follow me into that temple of blissfulness and mirth. But that day the tradition was destined to come to grief, and in what a way!

I woke up early that morning, the sun had not even begun to paint the sky with its golden, crimson and pinkish-blue brushes, and it was still dark everywhere; my head was filled with ghoulish dream I had had, and I was shaking all over, my hair dripping sweat. In a state close to an adult panic, I ran out of my room and rushed to my safe haven, my mother’s chamber; yet some strange noise made me freeze on the very threshold, and I stood there with my hand half grasping the doorknob, listening. I cannot tell you how terrified I was, yet without knowing why — there were two voices there, one belonging to my mother, and another to a man. My mother was not alone, and I knew for sure that it could not have been my father as he had never left his domain, and yet the voice was familiar to me. Had this happened during the day, I would not have been surprised as much, as my mother’s bedchamber was preceded by a small, cozy parlor where she spent hours in needlework or reading, or conversing with her brother, my uncle. This parlor was my favorite playground when it rained outside, here my mother often told me stories and read to me, here would my uncle come to present his never-ending gifts to me. But surely not in that dark hour of night, my alarmed mind kept repeating, what could he have been doing there? And I had put my ear to the keyhole and strained to listen again — and gasped, involuntarily, as I heard my uncle and my mother again, laughing — or were those sounds moans? Could she have fallen sick overnight and sent for him, as she had often done when some urgent matters surfaced? Or had he come late in the evening, as he had done before, and stayed? Or was something more than that going on?

My seven year old mind was boiling, panicking and storming, and it had never occurred to me that whatever had been going on there, never concerned me, that it was an adult, a grown up life, a life of maturity, something that was completely misunderstood and misty for me. Somehow in my agitation I had turned the doorknob — and with a soft yet audible creak the door flung open, and I saw my uncle, pulling off his silken shirt, and my mother lying on the bed with her dress and petticoats all gone, and she was laughing. My God, she was laughing, merrily as a young girl she had been when she married my father, and she was beckoning my uncle, and finally I saw him slowly sliding onto the bedspread, gracefully as a leopard I have read about in my books. It was the grace of a predator, of a dangerous yet alluring creature, and his movement were full of such passion and languor, and his ivory-golden skin seemed to emanate a glow similar to that of a candle put in the ornament of gold, and his auburn hair ran down his back and shoulders in lion-like mane, and I could discern each muscle at work, staring at him noiselessly. As I remember that now, it is amusing to me that I never thought he was going to harm my mother, or that it was MY mother lying there naked — I kept my eyes on HIM, instead of HER. My mind could not yet apprehend the sin as a concept, or carnality or sensuality, or even obscenity of the vision that was unfolding gradually before my eyes. And as I was unaware of it all, I was unafraid or troubled by the sight.

Neither my mother nor my uncle had ever spoken to me of adulthood, or its many delights and fears, I knew nothing of the world beyond the bounds of my own little universe that had revolved around books, journals, stories and imaginary things. My mother and my uncle were my world. Those two people represented the world in my eyes, and I needed not anyone else. My father was never welcome, I had no childhood friends save my dog, and I had seen no adults except my mother, my uncle, our five servants and sometimes my lord father, and to be honest, I fancied the world to be composed of those people alone. England could take care of itself, its queen or king — whoever it was; my world had only one queen, my mother, and one king — my uncle. That was enough for me.

So I watched transfixed, as their bodies met, and blended into one, and separating and meeting again, provoked slight moans, both my uncle and mother’s, until she had let out a louder moan, to which I somehow echoed — and it all stopped, as suddenly and abruptly as it had begun. Next moment my mother’s eyes, sapphire blue in terror, widely opened met my horrified and blank glance, and she said, her voice bereft of its former glee and cheer.

‘My Lord God’

In that single phrase all her emotions were mirrored, in a desperate manner of a prisoner trying to estimate the depth of the pit he had been thrown to, and it carried such profound sorrow in it that you could almost see the lions crawling from the dark recesses of the cell. Fear took the place of pleasure, and there was nothing but fear — the room seemed robbed of colors, hue and warmth; it went cold, as cold as the heart of the one who had never known love. My uncle looked back at me, at the same time as my mother did, but I could swear then and I know it now that there was no fear, repentance or shame in his glinting eyes. Those were the eyes of a contented, quietly triumphing person who had reached his goal, of a man who had his fill, of a man on the peak of his physical strength, beauty and on the very height of ecstasy, the needlepoint of orgasm. He was the man who had just finished making love to a woman, and accomplished it marvelously judging by her moans, her flushed face and sweat dripping from the auburn traces sticking to his pale ivory forehead. He had just come, and this showed up in the slowed gestures, in languid movements and hazy glance. He never made a single move to cover himself or his prey, he stared at me in that calm, content manner of a grown up man, still remaining in that frivolous position between her legs, never keeping aloof, he was there, on top of her, leaning slightly on his outstretched arm, demonstrating this perfectly shaped shoulder, an ideal curve of his slender body, that seemed practically ephemeral yet muscular, with its lack of fat or unpleasantness. Adonis and Apollo were nothing compared to him, to my eyes that was the man I secretly wanted to be, even back then, with no thought of his corrupted nature, I thought him blameless, faultless, stainless as the finest steel or silver, perfect as golden medallion my mother wore on her neck — now I know she had two portrait miniatures placed in it— that of mine, and of her brother, her lover, her only love perhaps as well.

Most children would have wept or cried, or run away. I didn’t. I suppose it was a stage of shock for me, that state of paralysis I was experiencing, and my glazed eyes have scared my mother as much so that pushing my uncle away, she threw her robe over her naked body and ran to me. I allowed her to embrace me, to hold me and never even let out a cry — when asked whether I was fine, I answered that I had never been better. At that, my mother and uncle exchanged worried glances— she kneeling by my side, he — leaning on the mantelpiece, still undressed and perfectly content with it. Hastily, my mother dressed up and took me to my room in her arms, crying. She obviously felt guilty and ashamed, I could see that, and I tried to console her, combing her silky hair with my fingers, and kissing her, — and that made her cry even more. Finally she had put me in bed and arranged a cup of milk for me, settling her by my side. No questions were asked, no explanations were given as she had thought them unfit for a young child — and I have to confess she was right at that, as my imagination would certainly have used that as means of inspiration.

Strangely enough, by morning I felt as if it all had been a dream and therefore I had casted it away and never again thought of it. My uncle, probably shunned by my mother, went away and never came back for the next eight years, during which I had matured and had tutors both in learning and life. Though my father was terminally ill, he had provided for my education, and on my 13th birthday I had departed for my new tutor’s house in London, leaving my mother against my will, yet she was resolute and adamant that I should go and quit our manor. Daily, she wrote to me, throughout the year, and I came back shortly for Christmas, but something in my mother cried out to me in despair — she was pining, her ivory face turning sickly pale, and the veins on her temples visibly blue against the transparent skin, her eyes glinted yet it was an unhealthy glint. She was much thinner now, and her auburn hair slowly lost its color — and she was not yet thirty, and prematurely old — she had confided in me she was not long to live, and this had to do with my father as she had feared. The doctor was sent for, and having seen my father, he had declared that the man was doomed, as the pox or some other ailment had started gnawing him long time ago. Now, he said, it was time to repent and call a priest, as there was nothing that medicine could do. Yet my mother had no signs of the illness, and her problems were completely and entirely of another sort, as he had put it — she had her heart broken. That was the common euphemism for everything unknown back in those days, but in the case of my mother it could easily have been as true as anything and I was the one who knew the reason of her broken heart, of her slow decay — I was the one who had broken my mother that night, six years ago. While I was close to her, she had the strength to hold on, but after I left, her pain got out and it was too much for her. Considering my father’s failing health, my leave and her brother abandoning her, you can trace the further path — the Death had claimed her, and was never settling for less than my mother’s life.

Aghast, but strong in my opinions, I proposed my father be moved under doctor’s care, and my mother to come with me to London, to which she strongly objected, saying she had no wish to go somewhere else, and that the good doctor will stay with her to assist her, — to that the good old man kindly and heartily agreed, and I was to continue my education and come back when ready to take the management of the manor in my own hands as a lawful and true heir. I cannot say I supported that decision completely — leaving my mother with a madman and an old man seemed absurd, and I insisted upon hiring five more servants, and a butler of thirty five, a strong and healthy man capable of physical assistance where the doctor had no power and strength to do so. Also, I begged my mother to take a nursemaid and a companion in, so she would never be alone — and to my gladness, my mother had accepted that offer, although she might have done that to please me only. My fourteenth birthday came and I had spent it with my mother at home, quietly and gently. However, the time had come for me to go, and seeing everything in more or less of an order, and imploring my mother to write daily I departed again — and that was the last I ever saw of her.

The following year was exciting for me, as I had turned fifteen and was considered an adult, basing on my appearance and success in studying — I was a fast and capable learner and soon was adept in languages, philosophy and sciences, as well as music and art. I grew up to be a strapping, somewhat dashing young man — and certainly I looked older than I was, being tall, muscular and confident, although I still have no idea about the reasons of my growing confidence. My mother wrote daily, and in her letters I had found warmth and contentment, as well as constant support and love, motherly pride for me and even reports of improving situation at home. I could easily profess myself a happy man, for that very year I had fallen in love for the first time — with a niece of my tutor, a lovely maiden of the same age as me, a golden-haired creature with eyes like stars — not surprising at all considering my poetically reared nature, — I saw her in all terms suited for the beloved of a poet. Being madly in love, I made up my mind to marry her in the nearest future, and even planned to ask my mother’s blessing, but the Fate had something more dramatic than an engagement for me in store, and nothing foreshadowed the worst that was coming.

December came swiftly and stealthily that year, and brought no letter from my mother, and it certainly was most unlike her. I wrote to her about three or four times and having received no answer became tremendously anxious. I wrote to the doctor and no answer came, yet the most peculiar kind of message had reached me in the person of my long gone uncle. Midnight bells just ceased tolling when I was wakened by heavy pounding on my chamber door at my tutor’s house.

‘Stephen! Stephen my boy, come quickly!’ my good master called anxiously ‘Stephen! Wake up, lad!’

Clumsily, I pulled my shirt on and stumbled downstairs, barely opening my eyes, just in time to see my tutor’s gray face and a stranger seated by the table, dressed — or rather, wrapped in black from head to toe. His face was hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, and he kept his head inclined so low that only his long matted hair was visible, falling down in curls and disappearing in folds of his scarf and cloak.

‘The boy is here, good sir’ my teacher said hesitantly ‘Now I shall leave you as I promised’

Saying this, he quit the room, casting a sad glance on me; after the door clicked shut, the stranger lifted his head slowly.

‘Well hello Stephen’ he said in a deadly familiar voice’ How you’ve grown’.

I gasped — and the man grinned, looking at my astonished face solemnly, candlelight dancing in his deep blue eyes making them shimmer and transforming his pale visage into that of Mephistopheles, outlining his sunken eyes, sharpened nose and chin and cheekbones, although he wasn’t gaunt.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked demonstrating the lack of politeness having addressed him with ill-suited hostility. ‘We all thought you dead’

‘Funny you should say that,’ he answered lazily ‘because it is what has brought me here. Your parents are both gone, lad. You are to go with me now — I am the only family you have, and honestly speaking you have no choice being underage.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked merely standing on my feet and clutching the chair. ‘You might be lying’

‘There are things in life that cannot be made into jokes, boy. I am afraid that is no lie. Your father had upset the candelabra in one of his tantrums…and burned to death, taking everyone and everything with him. It burned down to the ground, all your inheritance and all I had ever held dear. The only thing that had survived was this,’ and he rummaged in his pockets producing a fine golden medallion I knew at once— it was my mothers.’ It is unscathed, you see — and there was a note inside it, a will of some sort — my poor sister never wrote to me after we parted yet I perceived her fading health because of the connection we always had. And then a week ago, the news came when I decided to visit her. All I saw was the shell of the manor, and two graves freshly dug, at the cemetery by the church, bearing her name and that of her husband, your father. The priest gave a trinket box to me, barely refraining from crying, and it held this medallion, which survived only by luck as your mother had taken it off as she always did and put it in that box, concealing it in one of the drawers of her bedside table. Somehow, it was meant to survive the fire. Look’

I took the medallion, my hands shaking vehemently, my head spinning. Opening it, I saw the inscription made in my mother’s hand across the portraits inside. It made my heart fall down right into my feet. It said ‘take care of my son’ across my uncle’s miniature and ‘my most precious gift’ across mine.

‘Was there anything else left of her?’ I asked wishing there would have been something. ‘Was there?’

‘A note was stuck into the medallion — a short one, with a prayer. But everything else perished in the flames.’ My uncle stated sadly ‘Even your father’s paintings and molds — the flame was raging, intense — and the manor old. The servants were trying to escape, but they were too late as the flame spread round… I am sorry, dear boy. I am sorry for that, and I will mourn my sister as long as I live, but we have no choice but to abide by each other’s company now. She asked me to take care of you, and that I shall do. I am not asking your permission — I am merely stating the facts. Get your things; we must ride out before dawn’

‘Before dawn? It is just hours away, why should we…’ I started yet he never let me finish, making a short, irritated gesture with his pale hand, as if breaking something fragile.

‘ I will hear no refusals or objections to that — the journey ahead is an arduous one, and I shall not lose time. Any of it, you understand?’ and he rose up from the table, his fabulous mane of gold swooshing past me as he made his way to the door. In the doorway, he stopped to look back at me.

‘You shall understand in time, my boy. I promise you that. Not now, for it is but too soon and the wounds have not cleared and healed, but later when you are older.’

With these words he had left the room, and I stood there frozen on the spot, until my never to be bride crept inside, and touched my shoulder. Her eyes were sad, her lips trembled, and when I held her for the last time I felt her slender body shaking with tears; she cried and I cried with her, and we both knew we were never to see each other again. My good teacher said nothing, yet I could feel his suspiciousness and distrust towards my uncle who had appeared out of thin air so suddenly and unexpectedly; and not only had he brought dreadful news but claimed me as well. That my mentor could not comprehend, for I was to him like his own son, and his heart was uneasy when he saw us both to the gates. My uncle’s face remained stern as if no emotions could ever touch his heart and twitching the reins of his night-black mare, he rode off noiselessly into the darkness and I had little choice but to follow him. Many times had I looked over my shoulder vainly attempting to discern my teacher and beloved standing by the gate, but seeing nothing in the pitch black of the night I finally accepted the change, yet never the one who had brought it upon me. My heart was crying out, and blur in my mind frequently prevented me from riding accurately; I had to stop for several times, and my uncle barely contained himself, as the dawn approached it had turned out we were too far from the place destined to be my new home.

‘I can understand your state, I can see what you feel, yet what I cannot understand is how careless can you be with your own life!’ he snapped helping me to remove the bridle I had let out in a foolish attempt of both directing my horse and ducking from the low hanging tree branches, and pointing to the cliff in ten steps from the place we were. ‘Perhaps it is my fault, forcing you to go by night, but I had no choice, no choice at all! Get up boy and leave the wretched thing alone!’

He threw his knife to me and scoffing impatiently at my dumb face, exclaimed obviously trying to hold his temper, ‘Cut it off and let the animal go on its own. Ride behind me — at least that way I can be sure that I would not find you lying in a ditch somewhere with your neck broken. Come be nimble, there’s a tavern up ahead, we shall stop there’.

Having freed the horse from the tangles by the means of the knife thrown to me, I climbed rather clumsily behind my uncle seizing on his outreached hand.

‘Hold on to me, ‘he breathed helping me settle myself in the saddle. ‘Hold fast’

He spurred his horse and it went like an arrow from the bow, its hooves barely touching the ground, its mane swirling in the gusts of wind. Holding fast to my uncle’s waist, his black cape flying behind him brushing my face and his golden hair slipping from the folds of the scarf, I tried to push away the memories that had tormented me frequently at nights, those of the beauty of his chiseled body, and ivory paleness of his skin, strength of his arms — he had practically lifted me from the ground to his horse, and in the gash of his fine cape I could see the vein pulsing, and it drove me mad with a feeling I know now but had never known back then — desire; for I had wanted him secretly from the very night I saw him sprawled naked on the bed, from the very minute his eyes met mine in that cursed room. Apart from the nightmare where my deceased father was dancing as a maddened druid splashing crimson paint all over, there was another kind of dream, which left me motionless, powerless, robbing me of every sense but lust, every desire but to succumb to the lowest and darkest actions and sensations. It was set in a bedchamber all shrouded in various shades of red — there it was, crimson, blood red, wine red, amaranth, burgundy, cardinal, carmine, rosewood, cerise — silks, velvets, satin and veils, candelabras of old gold lighting up the scene, casting pale glow on the folds of material, making it all a stage, a decoration, a dream within a dream. And there was a man, in black silken shirt, opened at the chest, his face pale, perfect as that of a graveyard statue chiseled of finest marble, his eyes incandescent, his lips alluringly red. Auburn tresses of pure silk cascading flawlessly down his shoulders and back, he stood there looking at me, and in some strange fashion that only our dreams possess, he was approaching, gliding towards me, and then it all dissolved into crimson silks of the bed, where he lay in a manner befitting the god of love himself, his pose breathing sensuality and lasciviousness. This perfect head thrown back, his back arched gracefully, revealing his chest resembling that of David, right arm outreached, his long fingers clutching the sheets and his left invisible under the bedspread of finest silk, moving — and his lips whispering my name, softer than any woman could ever whisper it, and as I watched him, his voice became louder until it echoed in my head, moaning, moaning, becoming harsher with desire: Stephen … Stephen ….

And when the last syllable of my name hung in the lust-filled dreams of mine, his eyes would open wide and it seemed he looked deep in my soul, his glance mesmerizing, paralyzing and hazy with longing. And the sheets were wet through, yet it was blood — blood everywhere, drowning me. And I would wake up and lay there gasping for breath, and it would repeat each and every night, drawing me insane.

In those thoughts and memories I hadn’t noticed how we reached the tavern, how my uncle helped me dismount the horse, how he helped me up the stairs, how he carried me, exhausted and sleepy, to my bed and left the room, how the new chapter of my life began.

Chapter Two

D

elicious smell of food awoke me next day when it was long past evening; my uncle had allowed me that long rest gladly as he had some matters to attend to and as I had learned later, we were due to leave by midnight. Devouring my meal, which was very well cooked and consisted of freshly baked bread, pork stew and cheese, big jug of apple cider and sweet pies, I wondered what my life would be like now, with a man I had had such mixed feelings for. I cannot say I hated him, but I felt no liking for him either — to me, he was a storm-crow, a bringer of bad news, although I knew he had no hand in the matter; my mind was beating against him, forcing me to battle my dreams which were steadily revolving around him, and my excited condition which spoke of the beginning of a true feeling they tend to describe in books.

I loathed him by day, yet craved him by night; I saw visions where we exchanged places, where I became him and felt almost Godlike examining my perfect body in the mirrors that reflected my dreams in my dreams. He seemed to have noticed my doubts but did nothing to change that, thinking perhaps that I was old enough to govern my feelings, or rather he was still getting used to me, my ways and my company and preferred not to dig deeper being unwelcome. He was, after all not as tactless as I had pictured him, and the loss of my mother was a hard blow for him as well, as having lost his own mother in a tender age not unlike my own, he knew too well that time would heal the wound, not completely might be, but easing the condition to an extent where it still hurts but not bleeds the heart.

He never told me anything of the route we were about to take, or his plans for the day, yet it all became clear in time; he was silent mostly, watching me attentively, or reading — even as we quit our rooms in the tavern and boarded a carriage which was to get us to the sea, he spoke not. He was quite generous at providing excellent food, and a soft woolen plaid for me to cover myself, as well as the books for reading, — the journey took us about a week, and as we stopped at the taverns on the way for a night’s rest, his first priority was me, my needs and my condition. He always gave me the bed, if there was only one — and that happened often, and arranged everything perfectly, everything from meals to new clothes and washing which was not always easily done. I remember one particular morning when I had found a very familiar folio on the pillow, with an inscription ‘before leaving then, I took this book as a token for remembering your mother. Now I feel it should belong to you — after all it was me who had so many years spent with her, not you her son who should never had been bereft of her in times when you needed her most. This was her favorite’. The book was on legends of the old, and it pleased me greatly to have it— it still bore my mother’s scent on its pages and cover, and when I touched the cover her hands once touched, I was much relieved. Honestly speaking, I still cried at nights as her face tended to resurface in my dreams, and my uncle must have noticed it thus deciding to give me the thing he had treasured most of all as it was the only thing left of his sister excluding me and the medallion he now wore close to his heart as a memento mori. That was indeed generous and showed his compassion for me as well as his desire to soften the blow, yet though I was grateful, I couldn’t help detesting him — was it jealousy, or something of another nature, I cannot say, yet this hindered, inner loathing was still there and it wouldn’t leave despite all good things he had done for me during our traveling.

He brought me many things I never wished for, — a new costume, a warm cape, a new writing journal and some small things like my favorite food when I was down in the dumps, and he seemed a caring brother or a father to some, and I could see how glad he was of the impression we made. A simple remark concerning me, my apparent youthful gleam or beauty made his eyes blaze with pride, his back would straighten, and a soft smile would curl his lips as it could happen to a father, proud of his only child — and I know he had felt as one, having that sense of closeness, belonging — something I was constantly pushing away from myself, something that had both scared and fascinated me.

But let me not tarry here longer, telling you of how I had felt then, during our long journey — my feelings were eating me up, devouring my very heart and soul, and it seems to me now that the subject of that tormenting passion knew everything from the day when my burning eyes met his in a darkened rooms we were renting in a coaching inn in a middle of nowhere, among the golden fields of Auvergne.

That day was a long and arduous one; our coach broke just when we were about to enter France, leaving us helpless on the road. It was getting dark, and my uncle had to repair the fallen axis of the wheel himself. We had a coachman, certainly, but being old and quite frail he couldn’t even attempt to fix the wretched thing by his own hands, and my uncle as the strongest and most capable of the three of us had no other choice but to get out of the coach and, up to his knees in dirt and road mud, try to handle the matter. I don’t know how he had managed it, as I was fast asleep in the coach, and he always moved with almost feline grace and noiselessly as mist creeping over the hills. The only thing I saw was his dark outline against the sunset skies, his hair flying in the wind; when he had finished mending the axis he climbed back into the cab, his night-blue velvet camisole and fine silk shirt all splattered in greasy stains. His hair was wet and dusty, and traces of dirt tainted his ivory forehead and cheeks, yet he looked as perfect as no other man in his position could look, and a glint of triumphant joy sparkled in his sapphire eyes as he took the stained clothes off and rummaged for fresh ones in his travel bag. In a daze, I watched him secretly, still admiring the ideality of each line, each muscle tension, each shade and midtone aligning his features. This man was more than pure perfection; that man was in all senses beyond any possible comparison, description or anything fit for a mortal being, any person doomed to die — such unearthly beauty was too outrageously divine ever to be approached by death. Death could never be that bold, that forwardly to attempt an advance towards my uncle— and I am aware of how my words sound now, I know how you must perceive them, as the words uttered by a foolish boy in love — and that they certainly were. I was in love with him, and it was the very moment I had dared to admit it, to confront myself, and that confrontation was not an easy one to handle. I resembled my mother in more than looks or timidity of the character, as I had realized. Our passion and admiration for that man were of the same source, the source that had destroyed my mother and would probably destroy me — that I thought, and those thoughts finally made me shiver, thus casting my plaid off my shoulders. Noticing this, my uncle made a movement towards me, as it was possible in a small carriage such as ours, and deftly picking up the blanket, cast it on me again, — and for that he had to change his position and sit beside me. This closeness excited me so much so that I feared it might show — but my apprehension was quite idle as the plaid had concealed me in its woolen folds completely. My reader, you will undoubtedly see of which excitement I here speak — and I suppose it is not a matter of extreme difficulty; yet I must confide in you and tell you that I had never experienced this kind of stimulation before — it was unfamiliar to me, and the stabbing pain in my groin drove me mad, filling me meanwhile with such unbearable pleasure that I could hardly contain myself. Somehow this came out — either in my blushed face or in my involuntary trembling and shaking that upon looking at me closely, my uncle asked in a voice that sounded anxious and worried if something was wrong with me. As I felt his cool hand pressing my forehead, I could barely breathe for violent spasms — had I known that it was what they call orgasm, that it comes upon ejaculation and reaching the utmost height of pleasure I would have behaved differently, but I never knew that as nobody had ever bothered to enlighten me on the subject considered imprudent and filthy— and just moaned slightly.

‘Stephen’ he was calling me ‘Stephen, what is the matter?’

Feeling my forehead again, he came to the conclusion that I had contracted a fever during our journey and, leaning out of the carriage window, begged the driver to hasten, as my condition worried him immensely. As you can see, he was not a coldhearted villain at all, my uncle — and his pale and troubled face clearly showed that. His hand trembled as he pressed a cool cloth dipped in jasmine fragrance to it, and when he enfolded me into another blanket, his eyes reminded me of those of my late mother. That man loved me, of that can be no doubt, he loved me dearly, in a way my own father never did. That was the moment when all the resentment, all contempt I have had for him was transformed into sheer gratitude as I had gone back through my memory retracing the dear cherished moments of our happiness for three — my mother, my uncle and me — three people who had loved each other completely; in some of us that feeling was the only thing that had been keeping them alive yet upon being torn from them, served as a killing weapon of the deadliest kind. We were bound by those memories and long lost feelings of belonging together, belonging to this close-knit community, this golden-haired order of lonely people. A lonely woman, seeking warmth, a lonely child seeking a father, a lonely man seeking the unattainable haven of sincerity and affection — that’s who we were in fact. Strangely enough, my brain never could work this mystery out, up until that moment in the carriage — and when it had all come to peace inside my head, I felt a strange sort of calmness, as if the raging seas from an old story have been finally tamed by a mighty lord of waters deep. Yet, despite all those tumultuous feelings I wasn’t quite ready to open up my heart to my uncle, and I decided to behave in a more timid way, be friendlier — as before the sense of opposition, though not open, hung in the air between us. He did his best to approach me, to show me he actually cared but I brushed off his attempts of soothing me — I pushed away his gifts that he at times lavished upon me — in the course of our journey alone he had given me many things I needed in his eyes — books, fine clothing and food — of that I have spoken before— and I blush now as I think of how ungrateful I was then, in the beginning, and how I must have wounded him with my ignorance, my foolishness and scorn. Yet he was patient with me, and in the end, it had proved most efficient.

Little by little my agitation came to its end and I dozed off, with my uncle’s hand thrown over my shoulder, in the most fatherly manner. What I didn’t know — and what was later revealed by my uncle, was that he was experienced enough in the ways of the world to understand the sudden breakout of fever — and the damp stain on my breeches, noticed by his attentive gaze had told him everything there was to be known of the nature of my strange illness. I have slept for several hours, and was in the middle of my fourth dream when my uncle shook me gently by the shoulder.

‘Wake up, sleeping beauty,’ he said cheerfully ‘Time to get out of that creaking carriage and rest properly as all people do. Do you hear me?’ and he ruffled my hair that was tousled enough before; angrily I opened my eyes and demanded whether it was really necessary to wake me up in that awful way. Melodiously he laughed at that.

‘That was how your mother used to wake you up’, he said, ‘Always wanted to try, but she would not let me. And besides, ‘he added still smiling ‘You look exactly like a little barn owl now, all ruffled and angry. Here, look’ and he gave me a hand mirror so I could easily make sure he wasn’t lying.

The face staring at me from the cool surface of the mirror was far from lovely — sunken eyes, tousled hair, pale skin, sleepy expression. He was right — I looked even worse than a barn owl might have looked after a long carriage ride. Carefully he untangled my hair and brushed it with an ornate comb, then handed me a bowl of water and rinsed my face thoroughly with a piece of soft linen, all his gestures and movements being soft and caring, as if he was attending to a child. He helped me out of my shirt, and gave me a fresh one, then, taking our bags, he got out of the carriage beckoning me to follow him.

Once out of the dusty carriage I gasped of astonishment seeing a majestic old mansion before me. At once I felt as if I was a young boy again, all lost in his dreams and books of fine castles, maidens fair and brave knights — that house looked better than all the pictures in all my books together! My uncle laughed again — this time his laugh bounced off the staircase upon which he was standing, observing my stupefied face.

‘I take that you like it’ he called ‘wait until you see the library’

The magic of the word caught me right there— in my head I had pictured a vast room filled with all kinds of books, a stained glass dome crowning it — and candles submerging the whole room into a golden haze. This was a longtime dream of mine, the dream of the kingdom belonging to me alone, my own universe filled with characters that would never desert me, hurt me or make me cry. And my uncle surely had the similar disposition and vision of an ideal hideaway for he had created a perfect little world in this old house, and this world was ours. Ours alone, a whole world for us two— how sweet these words caress my ears still, although many a year had passed since the day I had first crossed the threshold of my uncle’s house. How amazed was I to realize that my vision had been absolutely real when the Library was there, before me! How pleased my uncle looked then, standing there by my side, showing all the riches the Library could provide — those books, books on everything, splendidly gilded, wonderfully, skillfully made, with their covers of finest leather and pages of best paper — how I marveled at them, how hesitant was I to touch them, to smell the air full of their scent, to turn the pages. Truly, I was so humbled by their beauty and the perfect arrangement of their home that for the first five days I could but gaze and absorb that ideal picture. I perceive I must have looked funny to my uncle’s eyes but he never said a thing, allowing me to get used to my new surroundings. He carried my bag himself as well as his own, and did it so quietly that I couldn’t hear a sound, absorbed into gazing at the splendor of a place I’ve dreamed of yet never dared envisioning.

‘Time to bring you to normal, dear boy’ — I heard him say’— everything is ready for you upstairs, and I dare say you need good scrubbing after that hell of a journey’

With these words he put his arms around my shoulders and guided me out of the library; he showed me my rooms — a bedroom and a studying room and chuckled softly at my honest childish amazement, for both premises were to my eyes, luxurious and too good for me as I saw it. My uncle however merely dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.

‘You’ll get used to it, — he said, — after all you’re not a village simpleton, or a son of an impoverished squire. You were born in a well-bred family of a long and glorious pedigree, on both sides. By birth you were destined to occupy a much more distinguished place in society than that you were provided for by your father who, I have to admit, has no fault in his deteriorated state. But my dear boy, the life you have ahead of you is — at the very least — beautiful and full of choices, and from now on you have to learn to carry yourself in a way befitting a nobleman, and I will assist you in every matter possible. As for now, come, I will help with washing’ — and seeing my puzzled expression added, — ‘my servants are not here tonight as no one was expecting me, and you will not cope on your own’.

The bathroom was vast in comparison with the one I have had before — and beautifully made, its wall adorned with softly shimmering marble, and crystal candelabras flashed dimly in its shaded corners. A large bathtub made of copper — or some other metal — stood proudly in the midst of the room on its lion’s paws, and a fresh sheet lay on its edges. Beside the tub three buckets filled with hot water stood, and two more contained cold water.

‘Let me help you’ — my uncle said, taking my coat, — although you’re old enough to handle this, still I would feel much more at ease knowing you are attended to. Now, give me your clothes, and get into the tub before you catch a cold standing there.’

Humbly I undressed and handed my filthy clothes to him. He took them without looking at me and gestured towards the tub. Just before I got in, he poured some water from the bucket into the basin and diluted it with the equal amount of cold water.

Soon enough I was all clean, and my uncle proceeded to washing my hair. Taking a bar of sweetly smelling soap he lathered his hands and carefully rubbed my hair with them. Then again, and again until my wet hair smelled of violets and dropped foam, he rinsed it gently and dried it with a towel. His hands craftily untangled my curls, and wiped the remainder of dirt from my brow and cheeks. Lathered cloth ran down my shoulders, driving the dirt away, I felt it slide lower, towards my navel, coming back again to the water surface, diving down again…honestly, I was inches away from crying out in agonizing pleasure — who would have thought that a simple washing could agitate me so! My head was spinning, my emotions fountained and exploded like giant fireworks — and shamefully enough, my total state only added up to the physical apocalypse — the climax was near, and only a blind man wouldn’t heed it. As I think of it now, I see nothing shameful in a young boy’s reactions to sensual things, even if they were but touches of soft and experienced hands. But then — then it was all different and unknown to me, as no one had ever instructed or enlightened me on the subject of desires and physical responses to them. However I struggled not to let my condition show and as I saw it, I succeeded — yet, I presume I wasn’t half as clever as I thought myself to be, as my pleasure ceased as abruptly as the storm breaks out on a bright summer day, and my uncle stood up reaching for the towel.

‘There you go,’ he said approvingly,’ now you look human enough to have a decent supper. Dry out, and join me downstairs. I have left fresh clothes here, on the chest’. His voice sounded strange, as if tense and I supposed all those tedious duties he was forced to fulfil, have bored him. He left me all alone, in the dimmed bathroom, with three fresh towels and a new set of clothes. For twenty minutes or so I stood there, holding the wretched towel, that had no fault in anything I had felt, then cast it aside and finding my new clothes, dressed up. My reflection in a grand mirror on the wall told me I looked more than decent, and gathering all my courage I marched downstairs, where the supper was served already, and my uncle awaited me. Hearing my steps he turned around and smiled, beckoning me to the table.

‘You must be exhausted, ‘he said observing the expression on my face when I saw the table laden with most delicious dishes. ‘Come now, eat and be merry. Your life begins anew now and this house is your home. Everything in it is yours, my boy, and if there is anything you wish, you have but to tell me. I have been absent for years, but I never stopped loving you, and God is my witness, you were always as a son to me. And I wish I hadn’t done what I did then…’

Then? Did he mean the night I saw him with my mother? He must have — surely he spoke of that, his eyes darkened and overall expression lost its former gaiety. I watched him, sitting opposite me, not too far and not too close, so I could see each minuscule line on his face, each tiny pearl adorning his splendid camisole. I saw the light glitter in his perfect hair, and I was rapidly falling in love with him, more and more. He was saying something, but I didn’t listen — instead, I was lost in my fancies, observing him, memorizing him — my eyes travelled from his brow to his lips, his shirt collar opened at the neck, his hands reposing on his armchair, his legs, muscular and slender, his broad shoulders — I drank him in as he was a glass of wine.

‘and after that’ — I heard him say’ I left for France, too hurt by my sister, your mother to stay in England…and here I have remained…but my boy, what is wrong with you?’

I was crying, that what was wrong with me. He rushed towards me, kneeling beside my chair, and softly touching my cheek looked into my eyes. He was so close that my head began spinning wildly — you know what I am talking about if you have ever loved to an extent of going mad. You know the feeling, if your blood ever boiled with desire, and your heartbeats deafened the life itself. You know the feeling if the one you loved and desired was that close — second away from you, and everything you could see was his mouth drawing nearer, and the hands whose touch and embrace you craved. You know the feeling if you wanted to resist and could not, because that was the precise thing I did. Never caring about his emotions, never being able to hear his words, I succumbed to my dark lust and pressed my lips to his. To my astonishment, he didn’t hold back, and the kiss that followed, raised me up to the skies. His lips were softer than rose petals, smoother than the finest silk, and his breath still smelled of fruit wine he had sampled earlier. Of all the kisses I tasted in my life — and there’s been plenty of them later on, only that kiss, being the first one ever, has reached the deepest recesses of my soul, absorbing me completely.

How should I describe that glorious feeling of the first kiss? Triumph would be too loud a word for that, pleasure — too simple a word to be able to contain this rainbow colored specter of mid-tones, shades and tints of emotions I experienced. Pure love, admiration, divine rapture and heavenly fire — everything was there, in that kiss, that was not by all accounts a long one, but still deep enough to fill me with delight and subject me to the most cruel and most thrilling of all existing torments — that of an insatiable human appetite for carnality and sensual experiences.

As I mentioned, I was as innocent as a child, and have never kissed anyone before. That kiss was my first ever caress, it was my first ever pleasure of my young life. This pleasurable oblivion however came to an end when my uncle shuddered and drew away — I imagined he was abhorred by my behavior or disappointed in me. Turning away from me he sighed and whispered my name.

‘Stephen’

In this word alone, all the pain and bitterness of the world erupted as I heard it. At once, I felt ashamed yet somehow quite calm — to my mind I did nothing unacceptable at all.

‘Stephen ….’ He repeated turning back to me’ my dear boy, why haven’t you told me? I suspected something wasn’t quite right…but…if only I had known...’

He never expected this, I could tell, and I couldn’t blame him for that — who could ever think such twists of fate possible in circumstances less convenient than those we were experiencing? Of course, the story wasn’t a new one for sure — even in times of ancient Romans and Greeks a love between a grown up man and a boy was considered the purest and the only real one, but a boy harboring a secret passion for his blood relative? Nay, that was too much even for the ancients. Forbidden love, sinful obsession, a feeling to be ashamed about, passion kept secret, emotion repressed, desire to be punished for — that’s what such love as my love was for everyone then, something far beyond human forgiveness, something so vile, filthy and low, that they would rather see such man hang for his crime of loving another man than live peacefully. In the eyes of a whole world, — and that is an observation from the much later days of my life — I was a sinner, a damned soul, for the feelings of mine were equal to sodomy — although of course none was committed.

People always have fine eye for the lives of their compatriots, and usually know the right way for each and everyone except themselves, — that much hadn’t changed in eons of human history and I have no hope for it changing in the future.

‘It is not as easy for me as you think it might be’, I replied’ to speak of these matters openly. However I see no reason to hide it all anymore now as it has already happened, uncle’ — I replied stressing the last word’ — of course you can dismiss me now, or scold me, or do whatever you see fit, but what else could I do? My head is not my master anymore, I am afraid — but it is my heart that rules my every word and action. I tried so hard to hate you, but I could not. Ever since that night I saw you in my mother’s bed I never was the same. I am sorry for my behavior during the journey, and God knows I must be sorry now, but I am not. If there is anything in this world you have taught me ages ago then it’s that it’s better to succumb to your passions than to suppress them all your life. I am aware of how foolish my words sound to you, I am — but I cannot silence that voice in my head, and I am afraid I will never be able to — as it becomes louder and louder when I see you.’

‘You are my only living family as far as I know, and you were a father to me when my own father couldn’t longer be one. You were my first teacher and my first friend save my mother, and the only adult person who had always taken me seriously, except her. But something we both share became my eternal nightmare, and my wildest pleasure as well, something that neither you nor me dare to speak of as it concerns the one person we both loved so much, and this person is my mother and your sister. I fear we both hastened her death — you by leaving her when she needed you most, and I by witnessing something she would have rather kept secret. All her life was built around us, you and me, and we both deceived her. I did it unknowingly being but a spoiled brat, and you carried on doing what you began doing although you might have known how grave the outcome could be. And now we are alone here, her murderers, her traitors and the only ones she had loved to death, and I keep asking myself whether this is all how it was meant to be. Were we meant to end up like this, just the two of us, bereft of the only woman who could truly make us happy and content?

You and me are so alike — I continued, looking at him and observing with a strangely savage and triumphant feeling his changed expression, his lips and face contorted by torment, — even in our sinful inclination. You desired her with the same fervor as I desire you now — and this thought, this mere idea tortures the life out of me because I cannot silence its song in my head, I cannot extinguish the flames that burn in my heart, eating my very soul away. But neither of us has an escape now, and we must coexist here side by side, though I scarcely can imagine that, being enthralled and enslaved by your presence here. You became my god when I was but a child, and since then I have wished my nights away dreaming of the day I could be like you, in your marble and gold beauty, adorned with thorns and spikes! If only you’d have known how impossible you seemed to me then, half reclining on my mother’s bed, glowing and shimmering in candlelight, how perfect you are in my eyes and how ardently I still desire to be you, to dazzle with that grace and charm, instead of being plain and clumsy, unused to such splendor of both surroundings and tastes. I should have hated you, God knows, but I cannot. I am but a foolish boy, what do I know about life after all save the fact that I would sell my soul to have the opportunity of loving you in a way I could have loved you would I not be your blood relative. You know everything now, and have every right to despise me, shun or mock me, even pity me, but my soul is at peace now as I have spoken’.

There, I had finished speaking and turned away from him, hastily, swiftly so he couldn’t see the tears pouring from my eyes. I was shivering all over and my head was heavy; blood was racing in my veins, and its rush deafened me, echoing and drumming in my ears, tormenting my very being, for it was my passion boiling in me, my desire and my misery flowing together in a lava-like current, consuming my flesh and soul alike.

Silence wrapped us both in its velvety cloak, but not for long — as an abrupt sigh escaped my uncle’s pale lips, when he, clearly amazed by my speech, made an attempt to answer. However, as soon as he had gathered his words together, he was interrupted by the loud banging on the door. He made a sudden movement as if to grasp my shoulder, but froze on the spot when the banging repeated, this time in a more aggressive manner. Again, he jerked his hand, gesturing me to keep my silence, but hadn’t moved. For the third time, the banging repeated, with voices following it, and those voices were heavy, unpleasant and clearly angry.

‘Christopher, don’t you dare try my patience!’ a man’s voice cried’ or I will break down this cursed door!’

‘Christopher!’ the other voices joined in an almost perfect choir’ Open up or we shall enter on our own accord and uninvited as we may!’

‘Christopher, you think now, and think fast — you don’t want your precious nephew to be hurt, do you?’ the first voice demanded cunningly ‘If you want no harm come to him, open this wretched door at once!’

My uncle’s face stiffened upon hearing the last sentence, his sapphire eyes flared with rage and although he was quite pale, his voice sounded steel sharp as he told me to get back to my chamber at once.

‘Off you go. I will explain everything later. Make no sound and be invisible I pray you. I will come when it’s over. Go now!’

Something in his voice told me plainly enough it was better to obey asking no questions. Nimble as a shadow, I ran out of the room flying upstairs and shutting myself in my chamber. Honestly, I had no thoughts of staying with my uncle, and I was a bit scared to, after I have seen him so changed in a flick of a second. Perhaps, I was even more afraid of any harm coming to him — especially after my sudden eruption. I felt quite miserable to be frank, and probably I shouldn’t have said everything I have said, but there was no way to restore the time and that blissful peacefulness back. What’s said is said, as people say — and whatever was to come next, was to be accepted and learned as any life’s lesson.

With those troubling thoughts, I entered my room and began to undress, but being careless, I tore off one of the brooches on my coat, and following the dangling sound, shoved myself under the bed, where to my surprise, I have found a small filigreed glass tile fixed into the floor, and looking carefully, I realized that the chamber I have just left was below my own. Now, when I could see everything that was going on down there, I was prepared to eavesdrop and think whatever I could see and hear over — and the things I heard and saw were worth of eavesdropping and spying as they revealed so much to me — and although I couldn’t quite take in what was being said, I remembered it completely, ad litteram — as any young man endowed with a good memory would, and as they had concerned me as well as my family, especially my mother, they were etched in my brain by the verbal chisels of my uncle’s soft voice. Everything the others mentioned remained a mystery to me for the time being, as all the mysteries do, but his words, the words he had used to speak of my sweet mother, or their life before she had married my miserable father, were as clear as they could be, as even to a child like me some things are certain enough without any effort taken to understand them. Although I should confess, some secrets are better left undiscovered — no matter how precious or important their unveiling is. But let me proceed and dwell no longer on my scattered thoughts. The story awaits, and time should not be wasted.

Chapter three

F

rom my safe hideaway, I observed the spectacle down below with a mixed feeling of interest and fear, as I felt something wicked stirring there, and by the reaction of my uncle, it was something long expected yet totally unanticipated. Three men entered — or should preciseness be needed for posterity — barged into the room. Clad in black from head to foot, they were an epitome of a merry company — being obviously drunk as lords and in the mood for a good fight should the opportunity for such present itself. To me, they looked menacing enough, but as far as I could see, my uncle’s face expressed nothing but purest disdain for the untimely visitors who had invited themselves in without finding time for asking the host’s permission.

‘Ah, this is a fine feast’ one of the gang admitted, scrutinizing the dinner table. ‘I always thought you had a flare for table setting, Christopher’.

His two sidekicks laughed coarsely, settling themselves by their leader and starting to sample the food on the dishes closer to their reach. My uncle watched them with pursed lips, his eyes as I imagined raged storm, but he feigned indifference observing only that he had no recollection of having asked them to join the feast. The brute chief smirked in a most unpleasant manner and stood up.

‘Is that how they welcome the distinguished guests in your flea-eaten England, Eccellenza?’ he asked approaching my uncle.’ Or has nobody taught you manners when you were but a…what do you call it…’

‘A baby I presume’ my uncle replied with a mask of polite helpfulness. ‘Oh yes, my mama had taught me that. She often said that good guests warn their host before turning up uninvited. But I suppose you weren’t told it wasn’t very nice to show up bladdered in a respectable house’.

Judging by the expression on the Italian’s face he didn’t know what bladdered meant, but he tried not to show that by laughing again. His comrades or henchmen, better to call them, having no understanding in the conversation, kept to the table, falling on the wine mostly.

‘What do you want here Rolando?’ my uncle finally asked, making one step towards the gang leader.’ Why bother dragging your guardia del corpo here? What business have you with me?’

‘Business…’ Rolando repeated, his accent growing stronger’ un affare imperfetto, caro mio’

‘Unfinished business,’ my uncle frowned slightly ‘Remind me of its nature, please do — I cannot recall having any business with you or your cazzoni’

‘They might be idiots to you, sapientone, but they are devils in fight. And to jug your memoria, I would ask you to remember our last meeting and the bargain we made’.

‘I struck no bargain with your lot Rolando’ my uncle told him’ and there were witnesses to that. If you want anything I can provide I would gladly oblige, but otherwise…’

Rolando didn’t let him finish. He was, as I could tell, beginning to get enraged.

‘Stop weaving your pretty words, poeta di merda,’ he hissed angrily’ you promised to pay me for the favors I have rendered, remember? My boys can attest that’.

The boys left the table and joined their commando silently, flexing their muscles and frowning threateningly. I have to say, they looked more than just bulky to me — they were strong, drunk bastards and nothing could soften that fact. However my uncle although not as big as they were, was showing no signs of fear or panic. He merely smiled at their fury.

‘Listen, Rolando. I don’t wish to soil my hands in your blood. Not tonight, not any other night or day to be completely honest with you. And not in my own sitting room to be sure. If that’s the money you seek, I shall give you money — though I cannot give much, but if that’s something else I am afraid I am at no liberty to help you here’.

‘There was a deal last time’ Rolando growled’ and you shall honor it or be called a cheat and a liar. Choice is yours, but the deal’s a deal. You promised’.

‘He promised you nothing’ an icy cold voice rang from the door. ‘And you’d better shut up and go before I get mad’.

The trio practically jumped of surprise as a tall, well-dressed man traversed the room and stood beside my uncle. His dark red attire gleamed in the candlelight and I perceived it was made of satin and silk, and glittered slightly thanks to many pale gems adorning the hems and collar of his vest. I couldn’t discern his facial features from up there, but it seemed to me he was a fair man in his forties, well built, tall and slender yet strong and agile. His confident manner gave away an aristocratic background as well as his high position among the people he had honored with his presence that night.

‘Il Morte Rosso’ — one of the henchmen whispered to his mate. ‘We go now’.

‘We go now, master Rolando’ another pleaded uncertainly,’ Eccellenza Rossa does not come with no reason, he shall kill us all’

Rolando made no sound and no movement; only his eyes narrowed and gleamed maliciously. The man meanwhile took off his gleaming cape and leaned on the mantelpiece. His actions were nonchalant and full of aristocratic grace, a bit lazy yet calculated precisely to create the desired effect of a slowly creeping danger. The cronies stood by, embarrassed until one of them has finally found his ground and turning to his master, repeated his words:

‘Master Rolando, we go now and be gone from this house for eternita, we do it now’.

Rolando shoot him an exterminating glance of such fury that I involuntarily pitied the guy. He backed off, more frightened than before.

‘We do not go. We stay and hear what his Excellency got to say, and you keep your mouth shut if you value your station and height, Roderigo’.

Roderigo lowered his gaze and nudged his companion to prevent him from sharing his thoughts with the company, but he had started speaking already.

‘ I would go if I were you, master’ he suggested, sounding plainly scared, although the man they all called Excellency merely smiled in a friendly sort of way, while pulling off his red silk gloves. ‘We don’t need no problems, do we?’

‘I applaud your wisdom, Giuseppe’ he said courteously ‘indeed, you’d better go and take your padrone with you — he seems a bit knocked out of balance if you ask me.’

The two made a movement to go, but their leader stopped them with a wave of his hand. Something has changed in him, when, turning to the man clad in red, he said, with mock humility, his eyes half-imploring half— ingratiating:

‘If I may just ask his Excellency one thing’

The man barely nodded, slightly taken aback by the sudden change in the air. He straightened up and approached his adversary, in a manner that would’ve suited a beggar asking for alms off a rich banker in the street. Bending his back, his hand half outstretched, he asked fawning upon the man in red,

‘What does his Rosso Excellency think about the promises broken, ah? Is it allowed only to his Excellency’s friends? This gentleman here whom you do know well, owes me money but denies it; and Rolando’s purse is not senza fondo, Eccellenza, and you know that. First that fine signore here obtains precious things from Rolando, and promises to pay him when the new month comes. Then when the new month is here, and so is Rolando, he refuses nettamente. What shall I do, a simple merchant, who needs payment promised? Your Excellency must have a solution to the problem — for I know that your Excellency is venerated for his wisdom in judgments’

The man looked at Rolando attentively and said, in a voice that could freeze whole England and the adjacent territories in a second with its indifference and calmness,

“You are right, Rolando I do have a solution for you’

‘Pray tell’ Rolando’s voice dropped grease with every syllable he uttered.’ I will heed your advice and cherish it’, now there was a slight sarcastic note to each word of his. The man they called Eccellenza smiled reassuringly yet ironically and said, very clearly, articulating each single word perfectly,

‘Chiudi il becco e sloggia’

Although I had no knowledge of Italian language, I could tell the phrase wasn’t an advice at all, for it sounded much more as an order to shut up. Rolando, judging by the expression of his sharp-featured face didn’t expect this kind of counsel. His sidekicks gasped yet remained frozen in their places — being still afraid of what could come afterwards, and I could tell they were scared of the mysterious Excellency much more than they were of their so called master.

‘What did you say?’ Rolando finally hissed making one step towards the man by the fireplace. ’You dared insult me, francese?’

‘Non propio, signore’ Christian politely replied ‘Non mi viene’ and he added, turning to my uncle,

‘I recall you had some excellent Bordeaux wine, Christophe, would you oblige me?’

‘Certainly, Christian’ and my uncle went out of the room to fetch the wine from the cellar. ‘Aha!’ I thought to myself ’Christian!’

I continued watching, mesmerized by this fantastic man who was bold and relaxed enough to ask for wine being in a company of three quite impressive bastards. Even now, all alone against three, it was he who was the most ferocious and dangerous. Not Roderigo with his muscles of steel and stone carved jaw, not Giuseppe armed up to the armpits, not Rolando with his complexion of Hercules and towering height — but this slender, graceful Christian, whose lips were twisted in a slightly mocking smile now, and I could imagine the twinkle of his eyes, that derisive twinkling so usual for born leaders and members of the ruling class.

No doubt he was playing with them, no doubt he was deliberately poignant, yet so charmingly well-mannered that no offence would’ve been taken for his words — but here of course I was biased or a bit smitten with the man’s way of carrying himself — it is plainly clear to me, after all the years of experience I’ve had, that the best way to insult your enemy is to joke at him, as if he were a child, playfully and pleasantly, without even the smallest hint at any negative feeling at all— you see what I mean? The sharpest blade often hides in velvet sheath.

It hurts so bad when you’re being joked at and are unable to react in a way you would’ve liked to if you happen to be a grown up man in a possession of a sword or a dagger — especially when the joker infuriates you and irritates you more than a thousand wasps buzzing around. But despite all your physical strength and agility, you are helpless, as a baby standing in front of a wolf pack. Poisonous tongues hurt more than poisonous blades for sure, and this handsome dashing stranger was adept at proving it.

So they stood there, three armed bastards against one perfectly weaponless men, outraged and boiling with desire to kill him, tear him to bits and pieces, and yet — and yet did nothing! What he was doing, the French would call la plaisanterie fatale, or grivoiserie — freehand joke, the fatal joke — it was far from an innocent jibe thrown by a juvenile at his mate, it was much graver than that, and those men knew it. But all they could do was to stand there gazing at him in rage. And he was still smiling softly, in a totally inoffensive way, as if he wanted to assure them of his peaceful intentions.

Meanwhile my uncle returned, spring in his step, his face jovial, with two bottles of claret, and putting them carefully on the table, turned to the company, unsheathing, as I have noticed, his narrow dagger quietly and almost unnoticeably from its scabbard.

‘I hate to interrupt your talk, gentlemen’ he said, and again, it was nothing but poison running in those perfectly civil words.’ But don’t you think it’s a bit too late for parties?’

‘ I couldn’t agree more, Christopher’ the man in red nodded pleasantly ‘ But our guests do not seem to share our opinion on the subject’

‘Oh’ my uncle exclaimed’ That is most unfortunate’

‘And why I pray is that?’ Rolando hissed barely able to contain himself.

‘I shall tell you why’

Francesco and Giuseppe flinched at the sight of his smile, and made the sign of the cross simultaneously. Their padrone stared at his face unblinkingly and stepped back, positively trembling. If you ask me, that smile wasn’t frightening at all — to me, that moment seemed quite stupid and even absurd. Later on, of course my opinion changed — but all in good time. You shall know my story completely soon enough if the fates allow me to proceed step by step without alterations and breaks, for at times I am easily carried away by the memories of the blissful days when I thought no illness could befall me and no darkness would prevail. I remember everything so vividly, each and every moment alive in my head, each face etched in my soul and each word in my heart, and all those things are constantly preying upon me, trying to wound and hurt me more than the previous ones.

Memories hurt more than all the living creatures will ever be able to, certainly. They have the strangest power over the hearts and souls of the most resolute and skeptical, those intangible unseen travelers, those pearly wisps of sighs, oaths and words which are so strong in their frailty, their weakness and ephemerality! Their wickedness lies in their illusionary nature, as well as their alluring aptitude to change at will. I have never seen a person who’d preserve his memories in a way they had actually happened, have you? We model them how we see fit, and that means all our memories are nothing but an errant fraud concocted from our desires and wish to rehabilitate ourselves.

But hark! Enough of that blabbing about. The story waits, thus must end the idle talk.

As I mentioned, Christian smiled, and that gesture had an amazing effect. It looked as if everyone in the scene had been thrown in the Thames in the middle of January. Amazement, surprise, astonishment — all these words are too weak to describe the extent of the shock endured. Three men shuddered; my uncle on the contrary seemed quite relaxed and even amused by the spectacle he was witnessing. He stood by the window, leaning on the wall, Christian was still by the fireplace, and three other men were grouped opposite him, with their backs to the doorway. Christian’s smile seemed to have blinded even me up there, watching from my safe haven under the bed, but Rolando wasn’t that simple a game to play.

‘Your tricks will do you no good, tizzone d’inferno’ he growled’ I shall not be beguiled by that magia nera of yours. Give me back my money, canaglia, or I swear I will…’

‘Kill me?’ Christian drew closer to him, his eyes fixed on Rolando’s twitching jaw.’ Go on then, here I stand. Be my guest’ he threw his doublet open and froze as a martyr ready to die for his beliefs. He had nothing to fear, that man, and that alone was obvious.

‘Go on, Rolando. You were saying?..’ Christian’s voice was inviting now. ’You wanted to kill me, didn’t you? But where are your little boys?’

Two faithful dogs have fled deserting their master, and that was the final blow to Rolando’s courage and presence of mind. He scowled and retaliated, but being halfway through the door, turned back and in a single fluid movement, threw a knife at Christian — just to drop dead himself with Christian’s dagger in his chest up to the hilt.

‘That one is poisoned’ Christian remarked cheerfully, after having caught the dratted thing in midair. ‘Now they can call me l’intercettore rosso. But we have one matter unresolved as it is, and I will gladly see to it while you’re attending to our meal, mon cher’.

And gracefully, as though he was dancing on a tightrope, Christian made his way across the room to the door and swung Rolando’s bulky shape over his shoulder so deftly that you’d think that corpse weighed no more than a dried up ant, and went off. My uncle began rearranging the plates and wine glasses, and soon enough left the room too — as I thought, to bring more food, but it was much prosier than even that — he left to see whether I was fine.

I never heard his footsteps, I never heard the door creaking or the key turning in the lock, — as I told you before, my uncle could move with the feline dexterity so his voice in my ear was a complete shock to me. Kneeling down, he whispered right into my ear,

‘ And what do you think you’re doing?’

There, I jerked my head so vehemently that I bumped into the wooden border of my bed. My uncle’s hand extended and gripped my shoulder, helping me out from my hideout. Looking at me intently, and saying nothing, he just sighed so deeply and so heavily that it scared me.

‘Have I offended you somehow, uncle?’ I asked him quietly. ‘Is anything wrong?’

He never answered that, but pulling me up, pressed me to his bosom. Violent this embrace it was, yet full of the most sincere ardour; his heart was beating madly beneath his silk shirt, his skin was hotter than iron in the forge, and his hands so strong and yet so soft, that each touch made me melt and burn by minute. His right hand grasped my chin and lifted my head up, and his left remained on my back. Our eyes met, and consumed by our inner demons — or mutual desires, we gave way to them all at once.

He kissed me, with all passion I dared to dream of, and to my sincere shame I remember not what happened afterwards. Most probably, nothing as when I woke up I was still fully dressed, yet my body was aching pleasantly and as far as know it was the same kind of tiredness one usually experiences after having had what I will prudently call ‘lovemaking’.

My uncle wasn’t there and I presuming he was gone off to divert his guest, who by all calculations had to be back, I left my room in order to see where my uncle could be.

The house seemed deserted yet I knew perfectly well that my uncle would never have left me alone in the mansion, so I proceeded stealthily yet confidently, from one room to the other, to my left. Ascertaining that nobody indeed was there, I turned in the direction mentioned and to my surprise heard hushed voices from behind the door that led to the suite adjacent to my own. The voices were those of my uncle and his handsome guest in red, who went by the name of Christian, and their conversation went on as follows.

Chapter Four

‘S

O, — I heard Christian say, — when are you planning to tell the boy everything?’

A short sigh followed, and my uncle replied heavily— the question made him quite uneasy as I could judge by the sound of his voice.

‘Not now, and if I can help it, not ever; the boy is not ready and I doubt he will ever be’

‘Not ready? What kind of excuse is that? My dear Christopher, do you seriously think someone can be ready for that sort of information? You amaze me; truly you do — is that some kind of an English way of thinking I’m not accustomed to? Ready! Nonsense. As if you were ready to face it before. Don’t be ridiculous. Get out of this chair and tell the boy now, before somebody else does. Surely it will not be me, but even with Rolando gone — and that oaf knew not the thousandth part of the story, — even with him rotting away, there are others who are dying to share the saucy tales of an eccentric Englishman living like a king in a mansion that is much more a palace than a country home of an exile. God is my witness, I shall do whatever is in my power to intercept, intercede, cut off the rumors or slaughter those who spread them, but I cannot guarantee, with all the power that I possess that the boy doesn’t meet an ill-wisher along the way and believes the thing he is told’.

‘He can stay here’

‘Christopher, are you trying to impress me with your severity or your stupidity? My dear dear boy, do not even dare to convince me you’ve brought him here to be a prisoner. When you left me to get him, I was relieved, thinking you were doing that to give that child the better life and more dazzling opportunities that could’ve ever been presented to him in that hole you call London. I thought you wanted to honor your sister’s memory and the feeling you’ve long been harboring for her, that you would strive to give that boy your nephew a life with some kind of sense and substance in it, that you would show the world to him and teach him to be strong, perceptive and kind perhaps, so that he would never wander astray. And what do I find now? You go there, you bring the boy here, you give him his own grand chamber, a library full of books, and then after facing the threat of being intimidated in your own house, you shun away from a direct explanation, you dare not stand up for truth, — and this boy is left alone, subjected to the things he’d heard, and by you! Christopher, that is not a course of action that becomes a nobleman, a grown up, for Heaven’s sake, do you not see it?’

‘You do not know everything yourself, Christian. Do not be judgmental’

‘I am only trying to understand your motives, Christopher. That boy…I feel for him, you know. It must be devilishly hard to be here with you for less than two days and remain sane after all the things constantly coming up. I would love to help you, if I only knew how. You know I love you, and I am ready to support you in every way lest you let me. Should the boy…’

‘His name is Stephen’

This was said through gritted teeth, obviously — but Christian merely sniffed at that.

‘Should Stephen ever ask me — what can I tell him? Of course I can invent a sweet little story of our long friendship, lasting for years and beginning at the point when I saved your life that first night of yours here in France, when the bandits surrounded you here, at this very place, and you’d had no chance of opposing them alone. That story would reflect the core, wouldn’t it? But what can satisfy a young boy, simply can’t be enough for a man, and he will be one in no time, and you won’t even notice the moment when he quits his adolescence and becomes a strapping young man of twenty five, and the world will change around him, endlessly enchanting him, but one day he will notice that here it is stale as an old pie. That you or I never aged a day since he first saw us here. Can you imagine his shock, the pain he would feel when he faces the inevitable revelation? You think you can hide the truth here forever as well as the boy?’

‘Why does it trouble you?’ my uncle asked wearily. ‘He is placed under my care, is he not?’

‘But that is precisely why I am telling you all that— how can you not see it? Your CARE, not your custody, your CARE, damn it! Christopher, Christopher…’

I heard the chair brushing against the floor and light footsteps, and Christian spoke again.

‘Had I ever let you down, Christopher? I cannot deny the fact that probably I know less of you than I think I do, but through all those years, had I ever done anything except treating you well and being a friend to you? Please listen and understand that I care for you. I love you, you fool, and I don’t want your life ruined by your own blundering. Stephen will know it all, and it will hurt him. In time he will understand, and he may even forgive you for withholding the matter, but time is of the essence here, and earlier you tell him, more time he has to comprehend it, to think it all over and come to terms with his consciousness and heart.’

‘His heart? And who is to think of mine? This boy is spitting image of his mother, my sister, in more than looks I dare say. I look at him and I see her, I see my Christine, and I cannot help feeling irrevocably lost Christian. This boy could be my son, he was my son all those years ago, I reared him as much as his mother did, and I was there instead of his father, this wretched miser, this madman — and I gave him everything I could have given him, everything a father— any father— would give his only child. And look where it got me — I no longer know myself when I look at him. I keep seeing her, and I cannot get rid of that feeling! You dare to talk to me of love, Christian. I loved her more than life itself; she was everything for me…Christine…’

Muffled weeping reached my ears — my uncle was crying, this strong man, who seemed so invincible, so fantastically unattached to all displays of human nature except calmness and resolve, lightheartedness and good manners, was crying. Little did I understand his words, and his passionate declaration meant little to me. I sat there, at the door, listening yet understanding nothing, hearing the words without caring for their meaning. And the conversation rolled on.

‘Tell me’ Christian implored him gently, ‘Tell me, and appease your soul. You never told me…and I had only my few scarce observations to draw a simple picture of your life before that assault I had saved you from. Those brigands attacked, you remember? That night you came here, so young and so lonely, so desperate you were ready to die among those raging beggars, and so beautiful to me…my golden English boy, my sapphire eyed seraphim…my Christopher’.

His voice was soothing and melodious, and soon enough my uncle has regained his spirit and though his voice sounded strained as he spoke, it was no longer broken or miserable.

‘What do you want to know, Christian? Shall I tell you everything, as it was? Shall I...?’

‘I think you must’ Christian said softly, ‘But I will never have the heart to force your story out of you if you have no desire of sharing it willingly. I am here for you, and here I shall remain while you need me or want me.’

‘My heart will never be at peace, I am afraid, Christian…and I know that now. But what I have to tell you will never leave this room, promise me that. Swear now this story will die as soon as it is told, and should Stephen ask, you will tell him anything but this. I will tell you everything and leave no stone unturned, no page unread, but never again shall I speak of it. Swear to me. If you love me, swear’.

‘I swear’ Christian said solemnly, and he had never broken the word he’d given. I never asked for I had no reason to. ‘I swear by the love I have for you, the boy will hear no word from me’.

My uncle sighed.

‘Listen…I was born as you well know in a family well endowed, to parents whose station was high and rightfully so. My father, Alexander Lindsay, was the earl of Crawford, my mother, Marjorie was of the Dunbar family, well-born and gentle, and they made a nice match, for both were young, handsome and very much in love. By the end of their first year together, my mother gave birth to a son, David who died in two weeks’ time, for he wasn’t strong enough to live. In a year, I was born, and my family was greatly relieved to see how strong and lively I was. I grew up healthy and loved beyond any measure, but no one could call me pampered, for my father did everything to ensure that my character was as strong as my body was going to be. He taught me all he knew, and by the age of five I could ride, I knew my Latin and French, and I was quite agile for a boy of my age. I never complained, I never cried, even when I’d fallen off my father’s horse in attempt of riding it, nearly breaking my neck I kept my tears and never said a word.

The year I turned five my sister Christine was born, and the moment I saw her, I knew I would love her until my last breath. She was so lovely, Christian, she was different from all the children I’ve seen — so like an angel, so gentle and kind, so radiant — if you could only see her as I saw her then! And instantly I took the part of her protector, her guardian, her friend and playmate. She grew up so quickly, and so did I — as my mother never ceased to remind me with a smile when I remarked the she’d grown up too soon. Soon after her fifth birthday my mother gave birth to our twin sisters, Elizabeth and Isabella, and the year after our third sister, Heather-Anne came to this world, making me the gallant knight of four lovely maidens, of whom Christine was the loveliest, with her auburn curls and eyes like the sea after a storm. We were so happy then, all of us, not knowing what the fate had in store for us, so blissfully happy, full of glee we roamed the hills and gardens of our lands, laughing and enjoying life we had.

Days rolled by, and one year replaced another, and suddenly there came a time when I was fifteen, Christine had just turned ten, and our sisters — five and three, and then the pox broke out, unexpectedly and violently stealing our three treasures away in a fortnight. Our happiness turned to melancholy, and our dear mother never smiled again. She took to crying, and we could hardly blame her for it, and our father spent all his time riding or endlessly roaming the hillside. That was his way of battling grief as I could understand it— little Heather was his unrivaled favorite, he loved her very much, for among his golden haired and blue eyed offspring she was the only one endowed with gingery brown tresses and hazel eyes so much like his own, and though she was too young for us to judge what her character would be like in time, we had the right and reason to suppose she had inherited our father’s wilful and strong-spirited nature.

Hence, Christine and I were left to our own devices, with our sweet governess and a loyal butler to watch over us, and four tutors who visited us daily to instruct us in matters of sciences and languages. Christine was deeply attached to me, and that was quite understandable since she had no other but me to depend on. I played with her, I read to her, I taught her all I knew, and that included riding, tracing the animals in the vast forest of our estate, and all those little things each boy was taught then. I showed her the crops, I taught her to take care of them as well as of lambs and foals, and she tried teaching me embroidery and knitting.

At times however, when left alone — as Christine had her own times of studying, I lounged about the estate, with a book or on horseback, visiting our servants and helping them, whenever I could. I was always surrounded by people, who cared of me, yet I was alone, and my gloomy days lighted up only in the presence of my sister, and I missed her laugh and her way of making me smile when I became too thoughtful for her. She would run up to me and jump, and I would catch her and whirl round with her in my arms, until she would giggle and still clasping my neck in order not to fall off, tell me something sweet to make me stop and lower her down. She was amazing, Christian, and even sunlight faded when she was there.

She was so young, so innocent — and she had years to come of age, but I was older, and I began feeling it couple of years beforehand, as every boy in the age of thirteen does. I became aware of my own body, my flesh, and the changes we all go through. And at first I didn’t know what to do with it — and I had no one to ask. My father despite all the love he had for us wasn’t easy to talk to, and I couldn’t discuss it with my mother, just as I couldn’t ask the servants. I had tutors, but none of them had ever instructed me on the subject of human nature. I wasn’t a boy anymore, I was a rapidly growing man, and the moment of my full bloom was drawing near. My fifteenth year brought the major change on, in the usual clumsy manner that time uses to show us the progress of our lives, and by the major change I mean the loss of my pure virginal self.

As I mentioned, we had a governess, a kind and benevolent lady of thirty five, which made her our father’s peer and very old as well. She had no family of her own, and she was the only consolation for us at times when our parents mourned our siblings. Apart from Mistress Blakeley, each of us had a maid to help us about in dressing and minor things. It might seem strange to you, but our maids were responsible for maintaining our hygiene as well, and up until I turned sixteen my maid Bessie aided me in washing as well. Instead of having a male servant, say a valet I had Bessie around, and saw nothing impudent in it. Now, I see the surprise in your eyes — I should have had a valet, yes, but nobody could arrange one for me, as none of the servants would act without my parents’ consent, and there was none to give — my parents were drowning in their grief and were unaware of what was going on around. They became my parents again two years later, when Christine turned twelve. Until then we were no better than two orphaned children with both parents alive. Neglected was the least gloomy way to describe our state then. We were unwanted, lonely and totally eclipsed by the dead children.

However, my adolescence was near — as I said, and it had chosen the most inopportune — or inversely — the most rightful — to manifest itself. That very morning — I remember it well — it was raining heavily and there could be no talk of venturing outside.