Candle in the Attic Window Part 17

At this moment, I realize I am pressing hard on the book. I open it to the first page and place the white sheet of paper as a bookmark. The dust from the street lodges in my throat when I realize the book, Bakeneko Monogatari, was written by the author of Hitomi. Not only that, but on the margin of the paper, the same name is written in j.a.panese: 'Tsukino'.

Heart beating, I touch the knocker. She opens at once and, with a gesture of her enormous eyes, invites me in.

To live in Tsukino''s house was like going blind: The small building from the dawn of the 20th century had been trapped between another two of greater size. For this reason, it received very little sunlight. The electrical wiring was old and failed constantly, so our daily life depended on the faint candlelights, which shone yellow because of the humidity.

Despite this impenetrable darkness, I grew used to living in this place with airs of used bookstore: There were rooms full of dusty books and a central patio which, I can swear, is the source of all the humidity in the world. At night, Tsukino walked the hallways in the company of her three cats: Hitomi, Kasumi and Ayumu. From my desk, as I made annotations on the thesis, or from the bed, I would see the brightness of the flame travel the house and hear the meows and purring of the felines. Later, I would feel how one of the cats jumped on my bed and snuggled against my feet.

I had not seen the cats. I knew them by their cries and because Tsukino mentioned their names during her nocturnal walks. Once, I tried to caress the fur of the one sleeping in my bed, but it fled when I reached my hand towards its back. Surely, the darkness and loneliness of the house had made them unsociable.

One night, I b.u.mped into a bookcase while searching for a candle to replace the one that was extinguishing. The book that I had bought on that occasion at "Miracle Alley" fell and opened on a page: "The pupils dilate and shine, with the thousand facets of a kaleidoscope with an abyss in the centre ...."

The light went off.

Kneeling at the threshold, I was able to glimpse a reddish light coming closer down the hallway. I heard Tsukino calling the cats and they responding with loving meows. I heard, too, my name. When the light came closer, I realized it floated like a will-o'-the-wisp over the robust body of a beautiful white cat with two long tails, which, with elegant steps, entered Tsukino's room. My hands shook, I sweated cold sweat, but I managed to drag myself to the main room. What I saw can barely be told with words: On the bed, wearing the clothes of my landlady, the white cat devoured the b.l.o.o.d.y flesh of a creature which I am unable to describe.

The tails quivered, ethereal, happy: Kasumi, the mist, and Ayumu, the apparition. The white cat turned, looked at me, and with a gesture of her enormous eyes, invited me in. Hitomi, the pupils ....

I felt myself watched into the infinite by those abysmal eyes, which eat away the flesh and soul. I ran outside towards the dirty air of Donceles, where the moldy bookstores grow and spread like mushrooms over the asphalt, and, like the infinite faces of Tsukino, I began to escape eternally to rid myself of those eyes ....

I still feel her lying at my side at night. I hear her whisper lascivious words in a language I do not understand. Each night, I imagine her eyes and I feel her snuggle next to me, and I am paralyzed and I am lulled and I slowly fall asleep, while she, wickedly, purrs her b.e.s.t.i.a.l prayer.

Nelly Geraldine Garcia-Rosas is a Mexican writer and a freelance copy editor. Her stories have been published in local independent magazines and anthologies like Historical Lovecraft (Innsmouth Free Press, 2011). She loves cats and has been working on a thesis on Gothic Literature for so long that it's not sane, anymore. She can be found online at: http://www.nellygeraldine.com.

I Tarocchi dei d'Este.

By Martha Hubbard.

The Magus.

Lurking in the sharp morning shadows, I, Zoesi Bianfacchio studied my niece in the courtyard below. I schooled my long, saturnine face to display little emotion, only my narrow mouth puckering as if I'd just ingested a rotten lemon. Look at her, I thought. Jumping about like a demented chicken. There are times I think my niece should be sequestered somewhere quiet for her own safety other times, I'm certain of it. Holy Mother of G.o.d, it's a hanging not a circus.

"Alicia! What are you doing?" I commanded, leaving the shelter of the portico.

"Oh, Uncle, can't you see? There's to be an execution actually, three. I do adore hangings. All those dangly bits flipping and flopping about," the girl burbled. "I love watching the workmen look at those muscular arms setting up the scaffold for the hangings. I hope the hangman is incompetent. I like it so much better when the knot isn't tied true; the victim dies slowly: gasping, gurgling, tongue protruding as his life ebbs away."

As Alicia rattled out this obscene monologue, I wondered, not for the first time, if installing her in the household of my Lord's wife Parisina had been a mistake.

True, there weren't so many hangings these days. The long reign of the d'Este family had enabled a period of peace and stability that meant most citizens of Ferrara were too busy scheming up ways of pulling in more florins and soldi to foment troublemaking, while the Duke usually preferred the swift finality of beheading. Sad, really a proper hanging could be an occasion of unbridled festivity. Tomorrow, there would be, not one but three droppings: pickpockets, thieves lowlife in plain sight of the entire court and populace of Ferrara. It would be the high point of a boring, lonely summer for Alicia.

Nonetheless, that was no excuse to behave with such an appalling lack of dignity. She should consider herself a very lucky young woman. Had not I, her uncle, Chamberlain to His Lordship the Marquis of Ferrara, Niccol d'Este, secured a brilliant position for her with the Marquis' beautiful young wife, the Madonna Parisina Malatesta? If she would only apply a bit of discretion, a judicious combination of hard work and well-judged flattery would see her named Chief Lady in Waiting. From that place, she would be of genuine use to me. I would repay her usefulness to the fullest.

Instead, the stupid girl had fallen in love with the Marquis' b.a.s.t.a.r.d son and heir, Ugo.

It disgusted me to watch. Whenever she was not otherwise occupied, her eyes tracked his every move. When she and Parisina walked to chapel, the young prince glanced in their direction with the sweetest, most tender expression in his coal-black eyes. My stupid Alicia believed that his tender glances were for her. It had not taken me long to discern the truth that the boy was enamoured of his stepmother. This was something I could use but how?

You ask why I would want to harm my beautiful young mistress? I tell you my hatred of this spoiled, self-indulgent beauty burns like a smouldering fire, ready to burst into blazing fury. She possesses the singular item I want most in all the world and now, she has claimed this exquisite boy, as well.

I know it is so. d.a.m.n her! Surely, no man can look at a woman the way he does without feeling the same stirring in his loins that I feel in my most private places at the sight of him. If only that stirring were for me. I cannot bear it. For months, I have sought a means of bringing down my cruel mistress. Now, perhaps Alicia has shewn me a way.

The High Priestess My life was not easy. Do you imagine it a wonderful fate to be married at fourteen to the greatest lecher in our city-state? The magnificent Niccol, hero of ditties sung in every tavern: On this and the other side of the Po, everywhere are the sons of Niccol. How could any woman, after experiencing his masterful lovemaking and potency, desire another? Let me tell you true. In bed, he was a dud: fat, pimply, foul-smelling, and fast. The buck in its cage takes more care of his partners' needs than my Lord Niccol.

Nonetheless, I was a Maletestina; well-trained by my father, Andrea, I knew my duty. Surrendering my dignity, I acquiesced to his ruttings, even on occasion pretending he had pleased me. My reward was two beautiful daughters, Ginevra and Luiza. Of the boy wrenched from my arms too soon, I will not speak.

On balance, my life was not unpleasant. After a few years, Niccol, determined to continue the goal of planting his seed in every nubile female residing in Ferrara, demanded his husbandly dues less and less. Monetarily, he was not stingy to me and mine. Thus, unlike many of his other sp.a.w.n living in the palace, we had proper clothing and the rushes in our bedding were changed before too many ticks and lice could take up residence in them.

I did what I could to help my stepchildren, but my primary concern was my daughters, their well-being and their education ... and my cards. Oh, my cards, my pretty playfellows!

Desiring to find a way to understand and endure my place in this life, I had become interested in the Sacred Inner Teachings. Any wise man will tell you of the two key pathways to Supreme Knowledge. One of these is the Sacred Tarot. In its powerful, mystical images, I hoped to find the conduit to an eternal and happy life. To this end, I had begun collecting decks of tarocchi. How beautiful were these packages of sublime ideas! Each artist brought something new and different to his own creation. Using an allowance from my father, I sent my servant, Zoesi on journeys throughout the breadth of the peninsula, to most of the city-states: Venezia, Mantua, Bologna, Ravenna, even into the lair of the Popes themselves, not so many years returned from exile in Avignon. Who would have believed that the most treasured and dangerous deck of all would be found so close to home in the greedy, mercantile city of Firenze?

In the spring of 1423, whispers reached me of the birth of a very special deck. Discreet inquiries returned the news that, indeed, such a deck, containing entirely new images and with covers wrought with fine gold, had been brought into existence by the painter Giovanni della Gabella. The story making the rounds the drinkers in the Firenze enoteche was that these extraordinary images had appeared to della Gabella in visions, that for the seven nights he worked on their creation, he neither slept nor partook of food nor strong drink, so powerful was the urge to render out this creation. He was said to be demanding the unheard-of sum of 40 gold ducats for this valuable pack of cards. Was he insane, I wondered. What stack of paper images could possibly be worth so much?

Excited beyond the point of reason, I nightly dreamt of them. The idea of them, how they would look, their scent, their cool, portentous feel in my hands. What hidden knowledge they might reveal possessed me. At last, I sent Zoesi to secure them for me. I had realized the outrageous price by selling my dead mother's wedding ring, one of my dearest treasures. At the time, it seemed a small price to pay, to acquire an object so extraordinary.

The Magus By the time Milady ordered me off to Firenze to collect the latest of her trinkets, I had become disgusted to my core by being made to act as her errand boy. Arriving in that glittering, giddy metropolis, my first thought was to secure lodgings. I had no intention of returning to Ferrara the same day. A bird released from its cage will fly free as long as it may. Inquiries about the house of the painter Della Gabella produced the news that the painter had left his home and family, and was living in a house of ill-repute with Angelina, the exquisite beauty who was said to have been the model for some of his cards.

Certain that, with these changes in his fortunes, he must now be in great need of monies, I reasoned that procuring the mistress's cards would present no problem. The house, so-named 'Garden of Earthly Delights', was on one of the narrow alleys leading away from the Ponte Vecchio. It was not difficult to find. Reaching a ma.s.sive wooden door that guarded the entrance to this 'garden', I knocked several times, only to have it opened by the largest, shiniest Moor I have ever seen. The head was shaved, the ma.s.sive body entirely encased in a voluminous robe, making it impossible to determine whether this creature be man or woman.

"My good lady or gentleman," I began.

"Ha." Don't know what to make of me do you?" the creature mocked. "'Merisonde' will do. How may I help you? From the look of you, you aren't the type to require the kinds of services we offer here."

"You are correct in that a.s.sumption, Merisonde. I seek the painter Giovanni della Gabella. I am told he is to be found here."

"Oh, you want the lunatic. If you can take him off my hands, I'll make it worth your effort."

"He is mad, you say?"

"Not so as you'd notice outright, but something about him upsets the other customers. My regular business has fallen off since he took up residence."

"I'm sorry to learn that. Perhaps I can help."

"Somebody has to. He's been keeping one of my best girls from working. And now, neither has set foot outside his room for two days."

"Direct me to him and I'll do my utmost."

"Right this way. If you can shift that miscreant out of my house, I'll give you personal service, myself free of charge."

Tempted as I was to find out what was under that kaftan, I declined.

A stirring in my chest, a vague new hunger, was pulling me upwards to the painter's room. I knocked, knocked harder, called the painter's name all to no avail. So it was, uninvited, that I entered the maestro's lair.

The scene that greeted me should be indescribable. Even now, I wish those images were not forever burned onto my memory. The once-beautiful model lay, sprawled naked on a bed, her shaved s.e.x open to all eyes, her blue-white body a ma.s.s of cuts and stripes oozing blood and pus. I feared that she was dead, but a soft moaning, like the purring of a dying kitten, told me that life still flowed in her.

On the floor nearby, in a pool of urine and excrement that had attracted the attention of a host of flies and other insects, the painter sat staring with cloudy eyes at the beautiful deck laid out in the traditional Spread of Destiny. As I entered, he looked at me and moved to shield the cards from my glance. From what I did see of the pictures, his future was not going to be pleasant.

"Go away! " he cried. "You cannot take my beauties."

"You have promised them to the Madonna Parisina. Here, I have money for you."

"I don't want the filthy b.i.t.c.h's coins. She cannot buy my love."

"I thought your love was the model Angelina, there."

"That," he gestured with his head toward the bed, "that is dross. It knows nothing, sees nothing, is worth nothing. Only my beauties here can speak the truth." He stroked them with a lover's touch. I winced to see him fondle the lovely images with his filthy hands.

At that moment, Merisonde arrived, a shadow falling across the carnage in the room. "You beast! Monster! What have you done to my beautiful Angelina?"

"Not so pretty, anymore is she?" cackled the painter.

Turning to one of the blond giants who had followed her, she ordered, "Get that foul creature out of my house! Throw him into the Po so he doesn't stink up our streets."

Then, kneeling on the bed, cradling the dying wh.o.r.e, she commanded, "And fetch the doctor. Now!"

"Well, Signor from Ferrara," Merisonde said to me, as the wretched painter was dragged, crying and screaming, out the door, "It seems you have forced an ending to this sorry tragedy. There, take those accursed cards. Get them and yourself out of my house, as well."

I was only too happy to oblige her. Scooping them into a pouch I had prepared for this purpose, I thanked her and departed. I was already crossing the ancient bridge, with its mercantile temptations, when I realised that I was unexpectedly 40 ducats richer.

Returning to my lodgings as fast as my shaking legs would carry me, I ordered a magnificent supper, along with a basin of warm water and some scented soap to be sent up to my room. Once my feast had been laid out, the curious eyes of the servant had departed and my cleaning materials set out, I removed the miraculous deck from my pouch. My first thought to remove all trace of that painter's contamination from the lovely images. As I worked- oh, so carefully wiping the grime and mire of his fingers from the beautiful faces and gowns, I felt a warmth growing in my breast. A stirring of love such as I had felt for no living creature in my existence.

When my toilette of the cards was complete, I poured myself a goblet of golden wine. Before bringing it to my lips, I dipped my finger in the warm liquid and turned up a card, touching a drop of wine to that first card, The Empress. The card and I shivered as one. She was pleased.

Throughout the long night, I brought forth one and then another card, each succeeding image more beautiful than the previous one. Truly, Della Gabella had been a master. The miraculous pictures shewed story after story: dreaming cities where nothing living stirred, peopled with strange, angular towers of jade and obsidian that twisted and turned, seeming to disappear into themselves. That night, the cards took me to places that mere mortals had never been even in dreams.

By morning, I was exhausted and exhilarated beyond words. The perfume from the images, exotic hints of violets, earth and despair, had lodged itself in my brain. When the peal of the carillon announced it was time to return to Ferrara, I experienced an anguish that wracked my bones, causing me to tremble in the fibre of my being. I now was certain of only one thing. I must possess them ... this ... miracle but how?

The High Priestess Zoesi's appearance when he returned from that excursion spinning, fizzing with unharnessed energy frightened me. It told me that something untoward had occurred.

"Were you successful?" I questioned.

"Oh, yes, My Lady, beyond all expectations." His voice was so low, so slurred, I could barely hear him.

"May I see them?" I said, holding out my palm. As he slipped his fingers inside his tunic to retrieve the deck, his hand shook like an ancient's crippled with palsy. Claw-like fingers gripped the gilded packet as I wrenched my treasure from them. His pallor spoke of torment at relinquishing the prize. But it was his eyes, the rage in his eyes, which set my heart racing and my limbs shaking with fear.

"Thank you, Zoesi. That will be all."

"My Lady." Without another word, he turned and stalked out of my chamber. Observing his retreating back, I knew I had made an enemy.

In the days after his return, I observed Zoesi's behaviour. His eyes, when he watched me, were twisted with l.u.s.t and anger. If I did not know that he preferred the hard, smooth limbs of young men, I might have mistaken this as frustrated desire for my own favours. I knew better. Zoesi's pa.s.sion was for my golden Imperatori Tarocchi di Firenze.

He could not, would not have them. They were mine! The minute those golden gems settled like a lover or a child into my tiny palms, I knew that we had been intended for each other. The blackness of his eyes told me that Zoesi wanted my treasure. How far would he go to possess them? This would be a battle to the death, if need be. I trembled with fear at thoughts of the outcome.

I was girding myself for the conflict, rehearsing reasons I could give my husband for dismissing Zoesi, when I received an unexpected boon. Plague had spread its ugly countenance over the rat-infested streets of Ferrara. My husband, fearing for my safety, ordered that I withdraw for the summer to the countryside and take my stepson with me. I determined to take the golden deck with us, believing that removing the cards from Zoesi's proximity would diminish his l.u.s.t for them.

Ah, if that had been the only snare of which to be cautious. A far greater danger awaited.

Codigoro, away from the miasma of Ferrara, was lovely that summer. In the long, clement evenings, Ugo and I would sit close together in a bower by the River Po. Sheltered and screened from servants' prying, in our canopy of vines and willows, we laid out the cards again and again, letting the magical images transport us to gardens filled with rosy fruit and fantastical, half-seen animals.

The scent of lilac, hyacinth and violet flowers pervaded the air around us. Their miasma gave the impression we had been transported to a new heaven. Experiencing ourselves high up in a crystal tower overlooking the entire Delta, we could see all the way to a strange ocean, alike and unlike the familiar Adriatic. Ferrara and my husband seemed an eternity away. In those nights, transported by bliss, we became lovers. It seemed so natural, inevitable ....

I say to you, that summer was the one period of my life when I knew true happiness. Alas, too soon, autumn rains washed away our idyll. It was time to return to reality.

The Knave of Hearts That summer, Alicia, left behind, had become one with the gryphons guarding the roofline of the castle. Daily, she occupied the high, west-facing rampart scanning the horizon, as if by her presence she could will an apparition into being.

"Oh, I am so unhappy!" she cried to the clouds. "Has ever any mortal suffered such pangs as I? Where are you, my beloved?"

She might have enjoyed the respite from work occasioned by her mistresses' absence, had not the thoughtless Marquis also sent away his son, heir and her beloved, Ugo, to accompany his stepmother.

The endless, steaming days and soggy nights plodded along, interminable. The flat plains to the north of the river steamed and festered, while Alicia endured nights twitching and writhing in a frenzy of frustrated desire. In the morning, sodden bedclothes stank from the sweat of fantasy lovers.

On this day in late September, her vigil bore fruit. A thunderclap of approaching hoof-beats heralded the end of her blighted existence. The onset of autumn, with its cooling rains, had dispersed the pox, calmed the Duke's fears for the safety of his loved ones, and brought about the return of her mistress and the adored Ugo.

"At last, I shall be released from this itching which wracks my days and torments my nights," she cried to the approaching cloud. "Surely, after this intolerable separation, he will be emboldened to speak of transforming our dark needs into reality."

Time, wretched thing that it is, pa.s.ses. Oh, evil fate. With each unresolved day, Alicia became more distraught.

That fateful morning, she stood in the arcaded loggia just outside her mistress' chamber, shredding a silken chemise, her fingers enacting on the thin fabric the resentment she felt at his betrayal.

"They have been back a week today an entire week. He hasn't spoken a word to me," she hissed at the ravaged chemise. "I have ceased to exist. My heart is wrenched into jagged pieces."

Her eyes narrowed, remembering. "His fingers linger over-long on my mistress's hand. I am filled with the most stinging bile at this betrayal." Her nails raked the innocent silk.

Never one to endure frustration for long, Alicia decided to search her mistress' chamber while she was at table with the Marquis.

When the contemptible lady appeared, flouting her betrayal in ruffles and lace, Alicia accompanied her mistress to the small dining chamber and saw her seated opposite her husband. Ignoring a speculative look from the Marquis, and wishing them "Buon giorno", she retreated.

Secure in the knowledge that the Lady would not return in less than an hour, Alicia ransacked the chamber, looking for evidence of Parisina's treachery until her fingers seized upon a new clove pomade. Opening its secret chamber, she found a ring hidden inside.

At first glance, she recognised it as Ugo's her Ugo's. When she tried to place it on her finger, it would not fit. The flimsy trinket had been cut down, made smaller to fit the hand of a faithless wife. Looking more closely, she espied the inscription traced on the inside: To my enchanting Parisi, long may this remind you of our love.

Her eyes were thrown open, her heart stabbed with betrayal. Tossing the wretched thing into the fire, Alicia ran out of the chamber, only to collide with her dear Uncle Zoesi, upon whom she collapsed in a flood of tears. As she sobbed against his chest, he was so supportive that soon, she had confided to him all her sadness and resentment.

The High Priestess My maidservant Alicia was Zoesi's niece. She had served me faithfully for two years and could rightly expect a prosperous marriage, with a proper dowry, after her time with me. Such was my habitual way to reward those who had pleased me. Concerned about Zoesi's intentions, I determined to question her about her uncle's habits and activities perhaps to confide some of my fears to her.

When I returned to my chamber, Alicia was nowhere to be seen. What was to be seen was a maelstrom of overturned tables, bottles tipped onto the floor, powders and tablets trod underfoot. All of my bedclothes had been torn from the mattress and thrown about the chamber. Ignoring these, I searched frantically for my clove pomade. Finding it open under a pile of pillows, I knew without looking that Ugo's ring was missing.

Only Alicia had access to my room. Only she could have done this. Why? Ordering her brought to me, I cleared debris from a stool and sat down to wait. On first entering the chamber, she feigned astonishment at the sight.