by DON D'AMMASSA
* * * *
Discoveries aren't always made by those in the best position to do something with them....
“I really think you should consider getting an aquarium, Miss Wilson. Then you would be able to enjoy the beauty of God's creation without having to submit to these tedious and unsanitary excursions. These are the 1870s, after all. One doesn't need to be discomforted while viewing the natural world.”
Emma sighed and wished once again that she'd been able to find the right words to dissuade Jared Rackham from accompanying them this morning. She and her younger sister, Virginia, were quite capable of looking after themselves and in fact they were both more at ease covering the rough terrain along this part of the shoreline than their ungainly companion. Ever since their arrival from London, he had been appearing with distressing regularity at the cottage. It would not have been such a trial if he'd been content to abide by the customs of decent society and depart promptly after paying his respects and remaining away for a decent interval between visits, but he was clearly enamored with her, although he had not said as much, and returned with distressing regularity. Her polite but firm refusal to respond favorably to his veiled advances had so far made no inroads on his enthusiasm.
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Rackham, but one can only stare at the same pressed leaves and flowers for so long, after all, and the fresh air and exercise is good for the health.”
They had been picking their way across a fairly steep, rocky slope and Rackham had managed to stumble over every third irregularity, giving his progress an erratic, uncertain quality. “There is no end to the wonders imbued in even the simplest of His creations,” he answered somewhat breathlessly. Rackham had recently been promised a living as curate of Merrivale when the incumbent retired, and had discovered within himself a previously hidden piety. “As to the value of fresh air, I must say that I fear it is most overrated. I find settled air much more conducive to my own health and have not suffered the ague or similar ills since mending my habits.”
Emma turned away to conceal her annoyance, and raised a hand to shade her eyes. Virginia had run ahead of them, her long legs covering ground quickly and effortlessly. She would be a stunning young woman once her body had regularized its proportions, but at the moment she seemed even younger than her thirteen years. “Ginny! Please wait for us to catch you up!”
But if Virginia had heard her sister, she chose to pretend otherwise and a moment later disappeared from sight, having reached the crest of this particular rise and descended beyond it. This was the farthest they'd come along the coastline since moving to Seamouth, and the difficulty of the walk had taxed their resolve, but not even this hardship had dissuaded Rackham from accompanying them.
Emma picked up the pace although the backs of her legs were aching and she was breathing heavily. She used a handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat from her forehead before Rackham could see them and launch into another panegyric about the ill effects of overexertion. Given the man's indolence, she was amazed that he had reached the age of thirty without spoiling his figure. He was still quite a handsome man, she admitted, although the effect was quite spoiled whenever he chose to speak.
They reached the crest almost simultaneously, and Emma suppressed a smile when she saw that her companion was mopping his own brow now, apparently too breathless to speak. That suited her own mood precisely, because the vista that opened before them deserved at least a brief moment of silent, appreciative contemplation. The land fell away spectacularly, revealing a narrow defile that seemed to cut down directly into the Earth. From the opposite side, a narrow brook rushed to the brink and toppled over, sending light spray sheeting down over a riot of wildflowers, bracken, various ferns, and twisted vines that seemed to gather all the rest together. Emma experienced a sudden but brief alarm because it looked as though there was no place Virginia could have gone except a deadly plummet into the depths, but then she heard her sister's voice from quite close at hand, calling to her.
“Emma! Come down! You must see this!”
At first, she had no idea how to comply. She appeared to be faced with an impenetrable wall of thorn-bearing shrubbery. A brief investigation revealed this to be an illusion, however. There were overlapping ramparts of branches and stems, but it was a simple matter to move among them once the trick of perspective was revealed.
“I say, Miss Wilson, is that wise?” Rackham made as though to take her arm, thought better of it and hesitated with one hand half raised. “The footing here appears quite treacherous.”
“Please don't fret, Mr. Rackham. I shall take care. Please make yourself at ease here until we return.” She thought she might escape him at last, if only briefly, but before she'd taken a dozen steps, he stirred himself to follow.
Twice more she had to pause and search for a way to proceed, and on several occasions she'd been able to keep her footing only by grasping sturdier branches or gnarled saplings growing out of the cliff wall. It was, indeed, a cliff face they were descending, crumbling and treacherous, and she would have turned back if Virginia had not continued to call from below, even if that had meant admitting defeat to the odious Mr. Rackham.
But at last she reached bottom and saw her sister, crouched at the edge of a pool of water only a few steps away. The hem of her skirt was heavily stained and Emma felt momentary irritation before glancing down and noticing that her own clothing, snagged by thorns and brushed by damp soil, appeared nearly as disreputable.
“Come over here, Emma. Look at this!”
Waves crashed against rocks only a few meters away, but the sound was muted by the convolutions of this sheltered cove. There were several brackish pools near at hand, and occasional droplets of sea spray speckled their surface. The foliage above them had formed into a canopy, and it was almost as though they'd stepped forward through time into dusk.
“Oh, there you are!” Rackham came up behind her so precipitously that he brushed against her arm, perhaps inadvertently, and she instinctively drew away. But for once she wasn't irritated by his advent, because she was so overwhelmed by the new environment in which she found herself. It was like a great, natural cathedral, the riotously colored plants mimicking stained glass, the filtered light from above, the muffled sounds of the outside world. “I don't look forward to ascending again,” said Rackham, apparently unaffected. “The footing is quite treacherous. I should think the local council would have erected some sort of barrier, or at least a warning sign.”
Emma refused to let his tedious chatter spoil her mood. She moved toward her sister, picking her steps carefully. There was water everywhere, and any solid ground was covered with delicate plants, which she did not want to crush under her feet. Fortunately, a scattering of smoothly worn rocks was profuse enough that she could pick her way from one to the next.
Virginia was still crouched in the same spot when Emma joined her, and at first the older sister failed to see what was so interesting about this particular location. It was the largest of the pools, certainly, and the deepest as well. Although the others had irregular, amorphous outlines, Virginia's pool appeared to be an almost precise circle three meters in diameter, as though something small but very heavy had fallen from above, creating a shallow crater upon impact. There was no shore on the far side, which butted up against a nearly vertical fall of rock, but the near side was bordered by fine sand of a sort not in evidence anywhere else within sight, at least not in such quantity. It might have been a miniature of a wading beach.
But the most striking sight was the object at the center of the pool. “What is that?” asked Rackham, following in her wake.
“I'm sure I don't know.” It might have been a lump of earth except that its shape seemed too regular. There was a central cap, its highest point, extending a hand's width above the water, surrounded by a spiraling series of tubes that wound around the core, extending its circumference until it displaced fully a third of the pool. The entire visible surface had a dull, red tint so unvarying that it seemed impossible for it to be natural. “It looks like an oversized sea shell.”
Virginia gestured impatiently. “Come here, please, Emma. I think it's almost done.”
At last Emma crouched beside her sister and saw what it was that so fascinated her. A narrow finger of that same odd hue ran along the floor of the pool, emerging from the water where it lapped against the sand, then extending across it in a straight line toward a stand of ferns. A jagged rock had fallen from somewhere above, severing what Emma could now see was a hollow tube. “What is it? Some kind of pipe?”
Virginia shook her head. “No, I think it's a tunnel. Look there.”
Emma hadn't noticed the secondary line, two of them actually, originating on opposite sides of the obstruction, now very close to meeting. Something glittered and Emma blinked, then focused and saw a jewel spill out of one end. No, not a jewel but an insect of some kind, a beetle perhaps, which sparkled red and purple and green as it moved. One end of the insect's body dropped to the sand, which stirred as though touched by the faintest of breezes.
“What in the world is it doing?”
“Just watch!”
It only took a few seconds. The insect straightened up and then pressed its opposite end—Emma couldn't see a distinct head—against the opening of the tube. Slowly, but visibly, a red hued paste emerged, clung where it was applied, and almost immediately hardened. The diminutive engineer then disappeared inside the open end, presumably to make some modification inside. A second, nearly identical creature had emerged from the other termination point and was performing identical duty there. A few more applications and the tunnel would be restored, bypassing the fallen rock. The newcomer varied from the first only in that one of its hind legs was missing, although it seemed to get along on five just as well as on six.
“That one appears to be injured,” she said quietly.
Virginia nodded vigorously and pointed. “Look there, at the edge of the stone. Do you see? There's a leg, or part of one, caught beneath it.”
Emma leaned forward, squinting, and confirmed her sister's observation. “Indeed, it must have been caught when the stone fell and perhaps gnawed its own leg off to get free.”
“What a horrid thought, Miss Wilson!” Rackham seemed positively repelled by the idea. “But I suppose God spares these lesser creatures the pain and anguish that are our lot.”
“Whatever could they be, Mr. Rackham? I've never seen their like before and I've read all the natural histories.”
Rackham leaned forward, peering myopically. “Some sort of beetle, I'd say. Or a water insect related to the pond striders.”
Emma clucked her tongue impatiently. “I wouldn't imagine that a water-related creature would take such great pains to keep its feet dry, so to speak, Mr. Rackham. This seems more akin to the termite or the common ant, although its appearance is certainly uncommon enough.”
Rackham sniffed to convey a sense of his bruised dignity. “I wouldn't pretend to understand God's purposes in these matters, Miss Wilson. I'm sure that whatever this creature is, it fits into His plan as perfectly as does the moth or the caterpillar. The role of the naturalist is to observe and appreciate, not to presume to explain Creation, Mr. Darwin notwithstanding.”
Virginia turned away to conceal her distaste for Rackham, rising slowly to her feet and stepping away from the water. “It leads back in this direction.” She tentatively pushed a branch out of her way, but the undergrowth was much thicker here, virtually impenetrable. “We have to find a way around this lot.”
“Whatever for?” asked Rackham, who had grown somewhat agitated. “I think we should go back. We wouldn't want to try that ascent in the darkness.”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Rackham. We've barely digested our mid-day meal. We surely have time to indulge ourselves and I for one would like to rest a bit before any further exertions.”
“I suppose a brief respite would do us all some good,” Rackham admitted, but he was sulking.
With the same instinct that had led her down to this place, Virginia had found a circuitous but relatively accessible route around the obstruction to another clear space deeper in the chasm. At first it appeared that she had gone too far and outstripped the beetles’ construction project, but then she spotted the thin red line running along an eroded notch before it disappeared into another bush.
Emma was close behind with Rackham reluctantly bringing up the rear. Tiny flying insects buzzed around them now and Emma waved them away, consoling herself with the knowledge that Rackham was similarly encumbered. Even so, she almost called on her sister to stop when Virginia began pressing herself around this latest obstruction, smearing her dress with fresh daubs of dirt as she brushed against the cliff face. But before she could do so, Virginia was gone again, passing through into a natural chamber so murky that when Emma followed she could barely make out her surroundings until her eyes began to adjust.
When she could finally see, she gasped.
The two sisters stood side by side, Rackham a step behind them. Directly in front of them, and nearly as tall as they, stood a dull red pyramid. The sides were cut up into tiers with ramps connecting one to the other like a giant model of a ziggurat, and at numerous points there were dark recesses, presumably access to the interior. The jewel-like beetles swarmed over its surface, engaged in enigmatic tasks, many carrying leaves and twigs and flower petals, dragging them inside the pyramid. It was too dark to see much of the base of the structure, but there was at least one connecting tunnel on this side, probably the one they'd been following, and one or more additional tubes beyond, stretching back into the farthest recesses of the chamber, which appeared to have no other exit.
“This is most extraordinary,” said Emma. “I do believe we've happened upon an entirely new species.”
“I don't think that's possible,” said Rackham dryly. “I'm sure that our English naturalists have them catalogued and dissected somewhere. One can't just meander about discovering new insects, you know.”
“Are you trying to say that there is a limit to God's creation, Mr. Rackham?”
“Certainly not, but we know the size of the Ark and common sense tells us that there must have been a finite number of animals which could have been accommodated.”
He seemed prepared to lecture on this point indefinitely, so Emma took advantage of his momentary pause to change the subject. “What's going on over there?” She pointed past Virginia to where a particularly heavy congregation of the beetles had gathered. They edged around the corner of the pyramid, stepping deeper into the shadows.
The beetles had to deal with another obstruction. Climbing vines had pulled down part of a dead tree, one branch of which had come to rest on the edge of one of the tiers. It would have been a simple matter for a human to shift the weight of the branch, which was only as big around as a human thumb, but for the beetles, it was a major obstruction apparently beyond their capacity.
A small contingent labored for quite some time without making any progress. The three interlopers watched for several minutes as the beetles jostled about, apparently undiscouraged by their failure.
“Can they possibly move it? Let's help them,” said Virginia, but Emma grabbed her arm.
“Wait! Let's see what they decide to do next.”
Rackham made an annoyed sound. “Really, Miss Wilson. They're only insects. They're not capable of deciding anything; they act entirely on instinct.”
She ignored him. So did the beetles.
It was obvious that the work team lacked sufficient mass, a failing they somehow managed to communicate to the rest of the colony. Most of the tiers were relatively empty of traffic, but suddenly they were overflowing with tiny glittering bodies. Beetles emerged from the openings in the pyramid in a fluid rush, hundreds at least, more likely thousands, all streaming toward a single goal. The movement was so sudden and massive that all three of the humans backed away, although there was nothing to indicate that they'd even been noticed.
The swarm reached the broken branch and congealed around the original work team. There was a sudden light scratching sound and the obstruction began to move and was soon pushed over the side. It fell to the ground and bounced away.
As quickly as the horde had appeared, it dispersed, leaving behind only a small crew who methodically began to secrete a sticky substance with which they began patching the small scrape marks visible on the pyramid's exterior.
Emma and Virginia clapped their hands together in applause, but Rackham had grown jealous of the beetles for gaining the attention he would prefer directed toward himself. And then he made a terribly unwise decision. He snapped off a piece of a dead branch and began poking it into one of the openings in the pyramid. The sisters both called for him to desist, but he had grown increasingly miffed at their indifference to his presence.
At first it seemed that he would provoke no response, but then one of the beetles emerged, others following, some of them mounting the stick and rushing along it toward Rackham's hand. Their speed and purposefulness caught him by surprise and he backed away, but he still held the stick and the first of the beetles had nearly reached his fingers. With an inarticulate cry of disgust, he threw the stick down at his feet and, before the sisters realized what he intended, had raised his foot and brought it down squarely on top of his diminutive enemies. There was a faint popping sound and when Rackham stepped back, they could see the ruined body of at least one beetle lying in his boot print.
Something changed around them. There had been an almost inaudible susurration, so low that they hadn't been aware of it until it ceased. Emma glanced toward the pyramid and saw that all movement had stopped as well. There were scores of beetles in sight, but they were uniformly motionless. She had a sudden presentiment of danger but before she could put voice to it, the movement resumed.
Beetles streamed from the pyramid, heading toward the threesome.
Emma and Virginia pushed their way through the leafy barrier, heedless of the damage they were doing to their clothing. Virginia stumbled and fell to a knee and Emma hastened to help her up. She turned to see Rackham follow in their wake, but it was a strangely altered Rackham. Scores of beetles clung to his clothing and his face was twisted in an expression of horror and loathing. He opened his mouth in what started as a scream but which turned into a horrible choking sound as several of the beetles raced up his chest and swarmed over his face. Rackham's look of surprise was almost comical as he staggered forward a few steps, then fell full length.
The sisters were transfixed, too startled and fearful to intercede for the first few seconds. Emma finally rallied, ordered her sister to remain where she was, and cautiously advanced. Rackham lay prone, moving his limbs slightly though to no great purpose, and moaning ever so softly. She had no clear plan to drive the beetles away from his body, but that proved unnecessary. They were already leaving, streaming back toward the pyramid.
“Are you all right, Mr. Rackham?”
There was no answer for several seconds and she was about to address him a second time when he slowly raised his head, then pressed his palms down and lifted his upper body. His expression was still anxious, but he was no longer ruled by panic. “What happened? Are they gone?”
“I think so. Have they done you any injury?”
Rackham rose to his knees, coughed, cleared his throat, then examined himself critically. “Only to my dignity. Mrs. Nelson will never be able to clean this suit adequately, I'm afraid, but I seem to be uninjured.” He glanced around nervously. “Are they entirely gone?”
“I think so, but we should probably leave now. Are you up to it?”
Rackham waited until he was standing before answering. “I think so, yes. They took me by surprise, you know. Silly of me to become so rattled by one of the least of God's creatures.”
Emma bit her lip. “Least or not, I really think we should absent ourselves before they return. Are you certain that you're all right?”
“Quite, my dear. A tempest in a teapot.”
* * * *
The return trip was uneventful, but Emma had never felt so tired and dispirited in her life, and the sisters confined themselves thenceforward to more conventional adventures and shorter excursions. Virginia mentioned the beetles from time to time, but Emma had no wish to be reminded of them, agreed that they had been quite beautiful, and quickly changed the subject.
Rackham seemed fully recovered, and resumed his regular campaign of visitations. His resistance to any outside excursion strengthened and he began to complain that direct sunlight disagreed with him, but Emma saw nothing extraordinary in this. In the past, he had tried similar ploys to discourage them from venturing away from the house. He had always enjoyed a delicate complexion, he explained, and Emma did notice that he seemed very pale, so much so that she inquired after his health. “Quite good, my dear. The spirit of our Lord lends me some of its vitality.”
Midsummer passed and Virginia was sent off to spend two months with their mother's sister, who had had a difficult pregnancy and needed help with the infant. Emma had been so far unable to make any friends among the local youth—in part because her father frowned upon most such associations—and her parents were so much taken up in their own affairs that she was left to her own devices almost every day. She began to feel so lonely that even Mr. Rackham's visits became welcome distractions from her growing malaise.
And eventually she felt a quite surprising unhappiness when they began to decrease in frequency and eventually stopped entirely.
Emma felt no attraction to the man, and counted him not even as a friend, but she had been flattered by his infatuation and felt a sense of distinct loss when it was withdrawn. On those occasions when she could find an adequate excuse to visit the village, she made painfully casual inquiries about his welfare, but elicited no intelligence other than that he spent a good deal of time by himself in his cottage and that Mrs. Nelson, who cleaned and cooked for him, said that he had become more studious and reclusive than ever.
She asked about this one day when she encountered Mrs. Nelson in the market.
“Yes, lass, he's a very changed man of late, he is. Keeps to himself, though, and doesn't find fault with my work. I have nothing to complain of.” Emma could tell that Mrs. Nelson wished to speak further but required prompting.
“I imagine he's preparing for his curacy. That must take up a good deal of his time.”
The older woman nodded. “He tells me all the time that he feels the presence of God within his breast. He's righteous enough, I suppose, though a bit Popish in his practices.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Nelson? He seems quite a proper churchman to me.”
It required a bit more enticement, but Mrs. Nelson was clearly primed to tell someone of the strange goings-on at Rose Cottage, where Rackham was ensconced. She had noticed a slow evolution of his behavior during the past several weeks, the individual increments of which had not been alarming but which were, when taken as a whole, somewhat troubling.
“I can understand him locking himself in his study for hours at a time, studying on his books, what with the responsibilities he'll assume within the year. But I'm not so convinced that what happens in the root cellar is entirely respectable.” Emma was forced to prompt her again at this point, and their conversational tug-of-war continued until she had the outline of Rackham's strange behavioral transformation.
Mrs. Nelson had arrived one day to find the door to the root cellar reinforced and padlocked. As it happened, her duties did not require that she have access to that portion of the property, which was used only to store wine and a few odds and ends, but she thought this new security unusual enough that she remarked upon it to Rackham, who assured her that it was simply a safety precaution. “Those old steps were rotted through and might collapse at any moment.” Although she had accepted his explanation, subsequent events contradicted it. “Sometimes while I was cleaning up, Mr. Rackham would come out of his room and go into the cellar. He told me that he was repairing the steps, and that he was barring the door from below so that I wouldn't fall to my death in a moment of forgetfulness.” She leaned closer and gave Emma a conspiratorial look. “But I never heard no hammering or any other sound, for that matter. And he always wore the same thing, a raggedy old robe like those monks up at Christwarden Abbey wear. I think he was down there kneeling in the dirt, saying prayers, and if that ain't Popish, then I don't know what is.”
Emma admitted that it sounded odd. “But I'm sure Mr. Rackham is entirely orthodox, Mrs. Nelson.”
* * * *
More days passed. Emma finally made a local friend, Mary Waddell, the mayor's niece, and through her, Mary's fiancé, Roger Hornby, and several other young men and women. A few of the men were interesting, but otherwise committed, and others seemed to find Emma's company appealing, but they were uninteresting. This unhappy state of affairs was still preferable to her former isolation, and her new social life was sufficiently engaging to take her mind off Mr. Rackham until late in the fall.
She was in the market again, running an errand for her mother, when she saw Mrs. Nelson at a fruit vendor's stall and recollected her former acquaintance. “And how is Mr. Rackham doing these days?”
“And how would I know that, Miss, seeing as I've not set eyes on the man for these last eight weeks?”
Emma's brow wrinkled. “But aren't you his housekeeper still?”
A vigorous shake of the head. “He sacked me, lass, and without a hint of a warning. Told me to get out and never come back.”
“But why? Was he unhappy with your work?”
Mrs. Nelson looked affronted. “He had no reason to be, and I've not had a complaint out of him or any who came before him. One morning I came to his door just as I always did, and he was waiting for me. My services are no longer required, he tells me, and other arrangements have been made.” She grunted heavily. “Other arrangements indeed. There's not a working woman in the village gives as good service, if I do say it myself. And he's not had in any other help either. I'd have heard.”
“But surely someone must cook for him, clean his house? Mr. Rackham is not the sort of man who could do for himself.”
“Can't say that I would have thought it myself, Miss, but there it is.”
Emma decided that she must find an opportunity to call upon Mr. Rackham personally and find out the truth of the matter. He may have made a pest of himself in the past, but he'd never done her a disservice and it was her Christian duty to inquire further as to his welfare.
But then Virginia returned from her brief exile, and Emma was introduced to Thomas Wallenby, son of Sir Arthur Wallenby, and more time slipped away with no investigation of Mr. Rackham's odd behavior.
* * * *
Emma Wilson gave no further thought to Jared Rackham until the day her father mentioned the new curate in Merrivale, Robert Bowlby.
“But I thought that position had been promised to Mr. Rackham?”
Her father had shaken his head. “Strange situation that, Emma dear. It seems that he turned the post down at the last minute.”
“Then perhaps he had a better offer.”
“Wetancourt says otherwise.” Wetancourt was the innkeeper. “Apparently Rackham spouted some nonsense about serving God more efficiently right where he was. Sounds a bit daft to me, but there's talk in the village that he's gone Romish and is set to enter a monastery or some such.”
Her father had no further information, which did not prevent him from expounding on the subject for several more minutes, but Emma barely heard what he said from that point on. She had silently resolved to herself to pay a visit to Mr. Rackham and learn the truth from his own lips.
* * * *
The opportunity to follow through on her promise did not present itself for several more days. First she was required to accompany the family on a brief but tedious visit to her father's brother, a tiresome man who had never married and who still treated Emma and her sister as though they were children. Then they returned to discover that the servants had quarreled in their absence and it required a firm hand and some understanding to restore peace and efficiency to the household. And there were various other social obligations that must be satisfied.
But at last Emma found herself left to her own devices for a day and, with nothing to compete for her attention, she set out alone and on foot to visit Mr. Rackham, an impropriety which would have shocked her parents but which, in these modern times, seemed to her quite acceptable. Her parents were visiting the Wheelers and would not be back before dark, and Virginia was off somewhere with her newest companion, Evelyn Lane.
Emma had never actually been to Rose Cottage before, although she had certainly passed it often enough. The name came from the climbing roses that swarmed over its walls, so profuse in growth that only the roof of the cottage was visible from outside the property. There was a gate, of course, but it was open. Emma noticed with growing dismay that the grounds had not been tended in some considerable time. The modest gardens were overgrown, and a sizable branch had fallen from a tree and partially blocked the pathway to the door. She stepped around it and continued, determined to discover the truth of Mr. Rackham's situation.
The door stood slightly open, a circumstance that caused her some concern. Emma raised one gloved hand to the knocker. There was no response, not a sound from inside, so she leaned forward and called out his name. “Mr. Rackham? Are you at home? It's Emma, Emma Wilson. I came to see how you were faring. Hello?”
She paused, listening, but there was no response. Her first impulse was to leave, but she'd invested considerable time and effort in this venture already and besides, Mr. Rackham might be lying sick or injured and unable to respond. She pushed against the door, which swung further open, and started to call again.
But she stopped in mid-syllable, aghast.
She had a very limited view of the interior, but circumscribed though it was, it still revealed the terrible conditions inside. A table and lamp stood under a large painted landscape, beyond which stood a chair, a mirror, and a doorway. By shifting position slightly, she caught sight of a portion of a tapestry, another chair, and a second doorway. Every object, as well as the floor and walls, was covered with filth. The interior of the house was if anything in worse condition than the grounds. Appalled but fascinated, she deliberately opened the door wide.
Dirt lay everywhere, not the patina of dust left by neglect but a perceptible layer of dirt as though a flood had coursed through the hall, leaving a filthy detritus in its wake. Something terrible had happened here. Emma knew it instinctively, and her concern for Mr. Rackham's fate overwhelmed her sense of caution.
She stepped inside, calling his name. There was still no answer.
The arrangement of rooms was unfamiliar to her, and there was such a thorough application of dirt throughout the cottage that it was sometimes difficult to tell one from the other. Every surface was covered, sometimes with a thin layer, sometimes with actual mounds including a particularly large one in what was presumably Rackham's sleeping chamber. But in due course she found herself in the kitchen, having seen no trace of her quarry elsewhere. Nor was he here, but there was a narrow doorway that did not lead to the outside. This door too was open, and a brief look told her it provided access to the root cellar. Somewhere below, a lamp had been lit, because formless shadows danced on the near wall.
“Mr. Rackham! Are you down there? Please answer me. Do you need assistance?” No one answered, but there was a faint rustling. “This is Emma Wilson. Are you hurt? Can you answer me?”
She placed a foot on the top stair, which creaked slightly but seemed secure. Another call brought renewed muffled stirring but nothing else. Emma bit her lip. Logic told her that she should return to the village and seek help there, but what if she raised an alarm unnecessarily? She resolved to descend far enough to survey the cellar and no farther.
Once the decision was made, she didn't hesitate. She did, however, watch her footing carefully because there was dirt on the stairs just as everywhere else, although it was so hard packed here that it seemed almost like carpeting. Within seconds she had descend more than half way and, by ducking her head slightly, was able to see much of the space around her.
If anything had been stored in the cellar in the past, it had either been removed or concealed under enormous piles of dirt. The top of one mound had been leveled off to serve as a platform for an oil lamp, which accounted for the flickering shadows. There appeared to be a second light source further off, but the cellar was L-shaped and she could not see around the corner. Beneath the staircase, wooden boards, an old barrel, broken glass, and other debris had been piled together in a chaotic mass. Rackham was nowhere to be seen, but there were signs of excavation and, not far from the foot of the stairs, one of the supporting beams had apparently fallen. There was a hint of color to one side of the beam and a shape that she recognized with sudden shock as the ankle and heel of a human leg. Emma promptly forgot her resolve not to descend all the way and hastened to investigate.
It was indeed exactly what she had feared. The beam lay across the knee and lower thigh, pinning them to the earthen floor. It didn't seem possible that the rest of Rackham's body could possibly fit into the shallow space beyond, but she didn't investigate. The condition of the flesh of the foot was sufficient to convince her the accident had occurred some considerable time in the past, and that there was nothing she could do for Rackham now.
But if that was the case, who had lighted the lamp? The rustling she'd heard might well have been rats or other vermin, but the lamps would not have lasted the day without being refilled. With the thought came another brief, furtive sound, from the pile of trash behind the stairs.
Although she was badly shaken by what she'd already seen, and certainly had no desire to encounter a rat in its lair, Emma found herself moving not to the stairs but instead toward the hidden branch of the cellar.
Even before she reached it, she noticed something familiar and disquieting. The walls had changed color, slowly becoming a uniform red, a familiar shade that she could not immediately place. Then she was around the corner. The second lantern was set in another column of dirt near the far wall, but the wall was no longer the delimiter of the cellar. A circular hole had been excavated through it, descending at a modest angle into the earth, and the walls of that hole, and the tunnel beyond, were covered with a smooth, almost ceramic layer of red hued material. It was then that she found the elusive memory and realized that it was the very same color as the tunnels of the beetle colony they'd stumbled upon the previous spring.
Emma knew that she should leave, but her curiosity was too great. She must know what lay within that tunnel. If she simply bolted and raised the alarm, she would certainly never be allowed to re-enter and see for herself. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped forward, caught hold of the lantern, and passed through the entranceway.
The slope descended only a few steps before leveling off, then debouched into a circular chamber where, to her amazement, she found a third lamp, also burning. But unlike the rest of the cottage, this space was almost immaculate. The walls, which curved into a domed roof, were smooth and red and seemed to be highly polished, as was the floor beneath her. But the real source of wonder was the structure that dominated the center of the room.
It was a perfect pyramid, constructed of the same material, with a single dark opening just large enough that she might have crawled inside if she'd been so disposed. But even Emma's curiosity had its limits. Without taking her eyes off the bizarre structure, she took a step backwards, intending to retreat.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
Emma spun around, nearly dropped the lantern, and caught her breath when she saw Jared Rackham standing just out of reach. Her first reaction was astonishment that he was alive; her second, shock, because he was completely naked, although his body was so heavily encrusted in filth that in the dim light it almost seemed that he was clothed.
“Mr. Rackham! I thought some harm had come to you!” In fact, she still did. He was certainly not in his right mind. The fact that he kept his distance did not appreciably diminish her alarm at his appearance.
“Harm! No, of course not. I am perfectly all right. More so than ever, my dear Miss Wilson.” He casually lifted his hand and filled his mouth with a handful of dirt, swallowing it almost immediately. “I am filled with purpose. I feel God moving within me every minute now. My life has direction and I have penetrated the fog of ignorance and seen the truth. For years I longed to understand the nature of the Creator and it is only now that I have come to realize that I was lost in a search for myself.” He stepped forward and swept his arm out, indicating the pyramid, or perhaps the chamber as well. “I am the Creator, you see, and this is my Creation.”
Emma had retreated instinctively although Rackham did not seem to mean her any immediate harm. She also noticed that he lurched rather awkwardly when he moved, and she observed belatedly that there was something slightly wrong with his legs, which were both covered with a red hued encrustation. The temptation to avert her eyes was strong, because he was altogether indecently exposed, but she persevered and realized that his right leg was noticeably shorter and more slender than the left. How could it have withered so when he looked otherwise hale and hearty?
And then she remembered the crushed leg at the other end of the cellar and realization made her heart race. The leg had not withered; it was being re-grown. Rackham had been caught by the collapse and had somehow severed his own limb. But how was this regeneration possible? Emma had no idea, but she knew that whatever mechanism might be involved, it was certainly no holy miracle.
“I must be going now, Mr. Rackham. I just stopped by to see if you needed anything, but I'm expected home.” She caught her breath and stepped forward, but Rackham continued to stand in her way. “Let me pass, please.”
“The work has taken much longer than I expected, but now that you've come to help me I'm sure that it will go much more quickly.” His expression changed. “You are here to help me, aren't you?”
“Yes, of course I am. But not just this moment. I will return in due course, Mr. Rackham. Now please let me pass.”
For a moment she thought he would do as she bid. He nodded, but it was to some inner voice that was audible only to him. “You must stay and help me.”
“And I will do so, at the proper time. I have other responsibilities to attend to first.” Her voice sounded wrong and she realized that she was afraid.
Rackham seemed to be considering her words, but only for a moment. “There is nothing in this world more important than the Creation. Perhaps when it is complete, there will be time for other considerations, but nothing must interfere with its progress.” He raised his arm, perhaps to point to the pyramid once more, perhaps not, but Emma interpreted it as an attempt to restrain her and she responded without thinking, turning to one side and swinging the lantern with her arm fully extended.
Rackham managed to duck away, leaving a gap through which she attempted to escape, but Rackham caught a fold of her dress with one hand and she staggered, nearly losing her footing. He would have had her then, but the dress ripped and the disparity between his legs proved his undoing. He stumbled, off balance, and lost his concentration as well as his grip as he tried to recover. Emma swung the lantern a second time; it barely grazed the side of Rackham's head, then struck the wall of the tunnel. Glass shattered, metal tore, and flaming liquid splashed out like fingers of fire.
Emma ran up the sloping tunnel into the cellar and then to the stairs, stumbling in her haste to ascend. She didn't stop until she was out of Rose Cottage and off its grounds, then collapsed under a tree not far distant, exhausted both physically and emotionally. When she glanced back the way she'd come, a thick column of black smoke was already rising above the wild roses.
* * * *
She stopped by a brook to wash her face and repair as best she could the damage to her clothing. The dress was no doubt ruined, but it would pass muster from a distance and if she was lucky, she'd have time to repair the situation before she was found out. It had already occurred to her that no one would ever believe her story, and that it would be best not to be connected in any way to the fire that had presumably destroyed Mr. Rackham, or whatever he had become, and Rose Cottage.
Arriving home, she quickly changed clothing and dropped what was not salvageable into the rag bin. Then she made herself some tea and sat quietly, waiting for the trembling to leave her hands and the images of Rackham to leave her mind. She was still sitting there when Virginia arrived.
“Oh, tea! Is there more? I'm quite famished.”
Emma was relieved to discover that she could carry on a normal conversation and inquired about her sister's day. Virginia had taken Evelyn on one of her famous nature walks, apparently, but Evelyn was not used to such exertion and confessed herself quite “fagged out.” She'd gone home to soak her feet.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Virginia's hand plunged into the pocket of her sweater. “I brought you a present.” She brought out a small, ornate box and set it on the table.
“What is it?” Emma peered down, wondering whether or not she was meant to take the box.
“Well, open it, silly. I know you'll be surprised.”
With a faint smile, Emma picked up the box and shook it. There was a rattle, as though some small, hard object were imprisoned inside. The clasp was brass and rather stiff, but she pushed it up with her thumb and it opened.
“Be careful! Don't let it get away!” Virginia shouted.
But the belated caution did no good. The moment the lid popped up, the jeweled beetle inside leaped from inside the box to the back of Emma's wrist. Emma's mouth opened wide in surprise and shock, and the beetle jumped again, searching for the nearest place where it might be sheltered from the abrasive sunlight.
Emma choked and swallowed and felt God moving within her.