The cosmic oasis, p.4
The Death of Clara Willenheim, page 4
“I suppose it inspired in both of us a sense of renewed love for the fatherland. That desire that men so often have, to feel the soil and taste the wind, to be boundless in a way that connects one to the land and to those things that can never be fully tamed. Edgar was like that—loyal to the things that kept him wild, the things that challenged him.
“One of those things was the hunt. As I often say, many nations have deer, but only Bavaria has stags. Edgar would have agreed with that. Don’t take my word for it; the trophy room is on the second floor—see for yourself!”
“Oh, bother.” Lina waved her hand in mock dismissal, but her face shone with pride.
“We rode out shortly after dawn. The air was crisp but not cold. Our horses’ hooves crushed the early, fallen leaves as we rode. That smell—of rich decay—filled our senses, mingled with the sound of autumn birdsong and the snuffling of our horses as they snorted and clopped over the packed earth.
“Now…” Horst paused to focus their attention. “It wasn’t Edgar who took down the stag. Though he was a fine marksman. No, it was Count Reigelstein who spotted the animal first and took the shot. It was a long shot, but sure enough he hit it. Square in the chest. We rode over to collect the animal.
“I don’t know if it was the easy, convivial air of the morning, or the beauty of the autumn day, but none of us were in much of a hurry. The count’s groom reached the animal first and dismounted. As the rest of us drew near, we sensed movement. Some sort of shuffling along the ground. At first I think we all assumed that it was the groom, inspecting his master’s trophy.
“Until we heard a strange grunting behind the bushes.”
Several people exclaimed.
“A wild boar. We must have disturbed its scavenging. Either way, his man was struggling to run from it. The boar squealed and grunted, running this way and that. One moment it was fleeing, and the next it rounded and turned on him. We didn’t notice at first the dark stain spreading from the groom’s gut, staining his green coat. Another from his thigh.
“The boar had gored him. A number of us jumped down to aid the man but, to his credit, it was Edgar who didn’t even hesitate. He sprang from the saddle and dashed to the man’s side. The boar turned and rushed at him. Edgar dove out of the way.
“But then he charged—Edgar, that is. He ran after the boar and threw himself on top of the creature. It bucked and squealed but not for long. Edgar unsheathed a long hunting knife from his belt and tore it across the boar’s gullet. We managed to ride back with the groom and call a physician in time to save his life. And that’s because of Edgar. Because he was always fearless. Brilliant. And heroic.”
“Here! Here!” someone shouted.
The stories continued for another hour or two, with many of the guests vying for the opportunity to share their own piece of Edgar’s history. Clara listened to all of them with a conflicted sense of curiosity and unease. Few of them knew the true Edgar.
Her mind churned with dark images—memories forced up to the surface, gasping for air. She would have fled from it all if she could have, but her mother sat tightly beside her, her grandmother across from her, and neither would have surrendered her easily.
Eventually the stories fragmented into competing smaller tales. As the conversation drew away from where she sat, Lotte turned to Clara. “I meant to ask if you’ve been feeling better.”
Clara blushed and looked to the side, her mind wheeling, searching for an answer.
“Do you mind my asking? Someone mentioned you were ill.”
“Clara.” Lina’s voice rang out as she rose from her chair. “Lotte, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I take Clara with me for now. I was just leaving for a time of prayer. I’m sure that would do Clara much good as well. Wouldn’t it dear?”
Her grandmother pulled her to her feet, took her arm under her own, and led her briskly out of the room.
Chapter Five
Lina pulled Clara down the main hall, past room after room lying stately and neglected like the carcasses of elegant beasts long picked clean. Outlines in worn rugs marked where furniture had once stood. Chairs that had lined the walls lay toppled in disarray, cast down by some unseen entity. Vases and cigar trays and silver services sat jumbled in a heap on top of console tables and servers.
At the end of the main hall, one wing jutted off at a right angle. There a family portrait hung, overlaid in cobwebs. In it, her grandfather and grandmother sat in carved high-backed chairs; their expressions somber, appraising. Around them, their three children stood. Clara’s father, Edgar, bore her grandmother’s chiseled features and dark, brooding eyes. Nathaniel and Cora mirrored her grandfather Conrad’s fair, open face and red hair. They all managed to appear united in boredom.
Clara would have lingered over the portrait, but her grandmother gripped her arm and strode around the corner and down to the end of the eastern wing of the house. There a studded plank door hung on solid iron hinges. The medieval style was a strict departure from the rest of the house, marking the chapel as something both set apart from and distinctly opposed to the house itself.
Lina pulled a heavy ring of keys from her pocket, inserted one, and pushed open the door. Cold air pressed out from within the stone interior. It smelled lifeless and stale. Rows of wooden pews stood witness to their entrance. The heavy wooden beams overhead and the solid stone walls pressed in on Clara. Someone had lit the candles on the altar and those in metal sconces lining the walls. As several burned down and went out, the cloying scent of smoke filled the air.
Clara followed her grandmother to one of the front pews. Lina lowered herself onto the kneeler and crossed herself, muttering something. Clara mimicked her gestures half-heartedly and knelt beside her on the rounded leather ledge. When she glanced at her grandmother, Clara saw that her eyes were closed in prayer, her lips moving inaudibly. Clara tried to close her eyes, but Werner’s red face rose before her face. And the others: the leering mustached count, even Aunt Lotte. They stared at her, hovering around in a circle, questioning, prying.
Shuddering involuntarily, she looked instead at the altar, an intricately carved wooden box draped in a white cloth and covered in silver candelabras, that stood beyond the low, front railing. High above it, the organ loft overlooked the length of the church. For a moment, the shadows in the loft seemed to flicker and shift, as if someone walked there. They stilled then shifted again. The house creaked and groaned around them. She looked up to the roof above, certain it would collapse. Instead, a shrill, discordant cord rang out from the organ, echoing off of the stone walls. Clara gasped.
Her grandmother opened her eyes a crack and shook her head. “It’s an old house. Old houses always have stories to tell.” She fell back into her contemplation.
Clara turned back to the loft. It rested, its darkness still, but she could feel eyes on her. Something waited there, watching, breathing. Below the loft, an elongated crucifix hung. On it, the Christ figure stared out at her from under accusing eyelids, trapped in perpetual suffering. The hairs on Clara’s arm rose. She fought the urge to run. But then Lina sighed deeply, crossed herself and sat back in the pew.
Clara quickly closed her eyes, waited several seconds, and did likewise. She looked around the room. The stained-glass windows were all narrow and deep-set. She didn’t have to turn around to know that the double doors in the back of the nave—also wood and iron—were bolted fast. The door back to the house, through which they had come, hung unsecured in its frame. It was, at most, thirty feet from where she sat. She forced her breathing to slow and waited for her grandmother to fall back into prayer. Instead she took Clara’s hand and exhaled lightly.
Her grandmother gazed up at the cross, her deep brown eyes misty. “There’s such forgiveness here. It may be my age speaking, but the weight of one’s sin seems to accrue over time. So many regrets. So much to atone for. And…” Her voice fell off leaving a void in its wake. “And the worst part of it is, it was Edgar who always knew what to say. If he were here…” She faltered briefly then continued, “but now, I fear I’m the reason he’s dead.”
Clara started. “Why?”
Lina squeezed her hand as if thanking her. “Your father was always a troubled man.” Her face seemed to gather for a moment, her eyes unfocused. “No, that’s not true. There was a time when he was very strong. When he didn’t bear the weight of a conflicted mind. But then, after his sister died, your Aunt Cora…I didn’t realize how her death would affect him. And now your mother is saying…suggesting…”
“What?” Clara whispered when her grandmother didn’t finish her thought.
“I…I should have understood him better.” Lina grimaced, her gaze fixed on something unseen before them. “I should have known what he needed. I should have done more. Instead he grew worse and worse, fighting against the other half of himself, the half that died with Cora. It died, but still it walked. For almost twenty-five years it walked, in Edgar’s body. It limped through the halls at night, speaking from a place of torment. Stalking him. Begging to be set free.
“And I never knew how to help him. In the end it was Edgar. Your mother claims it was Edgar who knew how to silence the part of him that couldn’t find rest.”
A cold hand passed over Clara’s body as Lina spoke. She remembered the nights when her father had bolted himself in his room, sobbing and pacing. They clustered in the hallway, Lina and Berend fumbling with the locks only to find the room barricaded. Her mother standing behind them against the opposite wall, nervously chewing on her fingernail, her other hand clutching at her dress. They would hear, from within, the sound, like an animal’s low feral growl and fingernails clutching and dragging themselves down the paneled wall.
She remembered the nights when she had awakened to hear him in the hall beyond her door, calling out for Cora in a voice she didn’t recognize. She would see the light from his candle pass under the door beyond her sitting room and would hold her breath, trembling and waiting for his steps to recede.
Once, as a child, she had made the mistake of opening the door, stepping out into the hall and responding to him. He had stood motionless, his back to her. Slowly he had turned and what she had seen in his eyes had sucked the breath from her lungs. She had collapsed. But Berend had come, Lina close behind him. They had gripped Edgar fast while Lina held a thick, acrid sponge over his mouth.
A slow creak broke her dark reverie, clutching Clara’s heart in its icy grip. Something moved above them. Berend stood in the pulpit, his hazel eyes boring into her. Lina regarded his entrance without comment. After a minute or two, he descended the stairs to the altar then passed in front of the pew where they sat. He stopped beside the doorway and turned to watch them. Clara’s shoulders slumped.
“We could all have done more,” Lina added. “Whatever his flaws may have been, he was always better than I ever was. Than any of us. We should all pray for his forgiveness.”
Clara’s head swung toward her grandmother, her eyes wide, her mouth open. But Lina had retreated into prayer again—this time with her eyes open, gazing up at the cross, her lips moving—and didn’t notice. Clara felt the heat spreading throughout her body, her hands clenching the edge of the pew. She looked up at the source of her grandmother’s gaze and the bile rose in her throat. She edged out of the pew.
“Clara.” Her grandmother’s voice was sharp, insistent. “I wish you to remain with me and pray a while longer.”
“I’m tired. I wish to return to the drawing room.”
“If you’re so tired, dear, Berend will see you back to your room.”
Berend leaned against the wall beside the door, his eyes fixed upon her, his jaw set beneath his salt-and-pepper beard.
“I’d like to see my mother,” she mumbled.
Lina sighed. “Your mother is, undoubtedly, engaged in satiating our guests with all the gossip they can possibly consume. The last thing you need is to be drawn into that maelstrom. You will remain here with me or you will return to your rooms.”
When Clara stood, impassive, Lina entreated her, “Wouldn’t you like to rest here, in the presence of the Lord?”
Clara looked up at the crucifix. In the place of Christ, her father hung, blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, ears; his eyes set on her. She shuddered and stumbled to the door. Berend took her arm, his fingers like a vise, and led her from the chapel.
Chapter Six
The day of the funeral, Clara awoke to a horrible but inscrutable premonition. A shroud of fog clung to the window. Her jaw and neck felt tight, as if she had ground her teeth all night. Sweat covered her body. Clara threw back the heavy coverlet and lay in the chill, drafty room, reaching for the tail end of her dream.
Her father had come to her and had stooped over her bed watching her. His face, at first warm and paternal, had dissolved, leaving the rest of his body leaning over her. When a new face had emerged in its place, she had struggled to move, had fought to cry out. But her mouth had been sealed shut, her body paralyzed. She had awakened with a start to the sound of a thud hitting her window.
She had looked forward to this day as one looks forward to the amputation of a gangrenous limb. She hoped it would purge her body of its diseased memories. She hoped she would finally be able to lay to rest not just her tormented father but also the anxiety and tension that hung in the air. Most of all, she hoped this day would mark a divide between the past and the future.
Yet the premonition grew.
The family and guests who had remained for the graveside ceremony gathered for a somber breakfast. All their prior attempts at jovial reminiscing had ceased. Instead, they sat and stood around the dining room in various states of hushed lethargy. Lamps burned throughout the space, suffusing it with a smoky glow. Outside, the arms of a slender beech tree tapped intermittently at the window.
Aunt Lotte sat in a high-backed chair, a plate of barely eaten fancy bread resting in the windowsill beside her. Horst sat on one side of the table, smoking quietly, a glass of brandy already before him. Her grandmother, at the head of the table, leaned forward in her chair, her shoulders hunched in defeat. Her mother picked at the eggs on her toast, doing more to smear it into a formless mass than actually eat it.
As Clara entered the room, they looked up at her in surprised silence. She took in the lifeless scene and, her appetite extinguished, settled into a chair opposite Lotte. Outside the window, the crooked form of a raven lay on the gravel path, its wing bent back from its body, one beady eye fixed on her.
Eventually the priest arrived, and they arose as one, following the six men carrying the casket. The front door stood open, a laurel wreath tied with a black ribbon, hanging above the knocker. They emerged from the house beneath a dripping, leaden sky. The wind on her face, even the persistent drizzle, should have felt like a relief to Clara who hadn’t felt the earth beneath her feet in weeks. Instead the sky hung, oppressive. The rain spat in her face, sparking her skin like small, jagged rocks.
Much of the ceremony went by in a haze. They passed through the iron gates of the family cemetery and stood beneath a large oak tree, its leaves heaped in thick soggy piles on the ground, listening to the funeral rites. Servants held umbrellas over their heads, but the rain drove in sideways, shifting with the wind. Clara’s feet and gown were soon drenched below the waist.
Her grandmother cried quietly, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. Her mother’s mouth remained fixed, stoic, her dry eyes impressing on Clara the likeness of a tragic Greek heroine. Aunt Lotte sobbed quietly. Uncle Horst held her close under his arm, his long dark mustache dripping water.
At the sight of Lotte, Clara felt tears gather in her eyes, filling her with a deep sense of shame. Part of her mourned the loss of her only father, one who, in his healthy and lucid states had loved her. But the other half of her felt relief as at the silencing of an unassailable foe. She told herself her relief was for his anguish and constant seeking, his restless discontent. Still, guilt warred within her.
When the priest issued the last amen and the pallbearers lifted the coffin, her mother gestured to her and gathered Clara’s arm within her own. They followed her grandmother up the wide stairs and into the mausoleum where a hole in the marble wall gaped open, waiting to swallow Edgar in death. Most of the guests remained outside, huddled under their umbrellas.
Rain ran off the coffin and streamed in rivulets on the shining, white-veined floors. Clara focused on her feet as they slid along the slick surface. Ahead of her, a creak. Someone gasped. An instant later, Horst’s feet flew out from under him and his side of the casket tipped over. The weight unsettled the group. The corner of the heavy box slammed into the marble floor, cracking the slab. Everyone froze in mute shock.
A sigh issued from the coffin.
Clara backed away until she stood against the wall. Her grandmother clutched her handkerchief to her chest, her face pale, her mouth trembling. Lotte froze, her eyes large. Horst rose on one knee, then the other, his face red with embarrassment. The others stared at the box in horror.
“Edgar!” Her grandmother’s voice reverberated against the marble. She rushed forward, her feet nearly flying out from under her. The priest caught her and held her upright.
“No. No Frau Willenheim. I’m sorry. It’s…” He lowered his voice. “It’s an effect of death. Air may be released after the fact.”
But Lina wouldn’t listen. She shoved her way between Horst and Werner and clutched at the locks on the coffin.
“Frau Willenheim, I really must entreat you not to…” He looked to be on the verge of pulling her back, then seemed to recall himself.
It was no use. “He’s trying to speak to us,” she implored, her eyes savagely hopeful. Hagan ran back to the house to retrieve the coffin’s keys from the library.
The family and their closest guests waited within the small building, water dripping off their clothes and pooling on the floor. The building filled with a musty smell of bodies and the odor of their breaths. Clara felt lightheaded and weak, her stomach sick despite her morning fast.
