The Sphere (23 page)

A few seconds pass. Once the rocks knocked loose by my fall stop tumbling down the cliff, I can hear the sound of the sea. I open my eyes on a familiar sight: the ruins of the old castle of St Andrews. Or rather, the Sphere’s perfectly intact castle. It’s nearly the same as the one in St Andrews, except that time doesn’t seem to leave any mark here. I’m in the little cove of Castle Sands. I’m lying face-up on the beach, and I don’t even consider trying to move. The clouds are sliding gently across the full moon, and inside the castle windows you can just see the glow of candles, and perhaps a fireplace. It’s odd; I’m not frightened. I’m almost enjoying how peaceful it is here.

A stabbing pain forces me to sit up. A sharp piece of wood is lodged in my side, the point piercing my clothing. Slowly I move my hand toward my jacket to find the place where the sliver of wood goes in. I expect to find my own wet blood, but everything is dry. I move the fabric aside carefully. Apart from the wound made where the foreign object enters my flesh, my skin is intact. I can tell something is sticking into me, but I don’t really feel any pain. I take hold of the bit of wood with both hands, take a deep breath, and pull. I can feel it slipping out, but it doesn’t hurt. Not even a scratch—just like the day of the car accident with Carl.

I am dead. It’s the only explanation.

Tears spring to my eyes and gush out in an unstoppable flood. I feel so angry with myself. I dry my eyes, rubbing the backs of my hands furiously against my cheeks, but I can’t stop crying. Even though I keep telling myself that this is not the time for tears, that it’s time to accept the situation. Even though crying has never been my style.

I’ll never go back to St Andrews, or to Edinburgh, or to anywhere else I know. The dead don’t come back... So this is what happens. Dying is sort of like dreaming. That explains why everything is so bizarre. I try to calm down, but sobs convulse my body. I can’t think. Images of the twins, of Axel, of that stupid vision of my parents being devoured by carnivorous books. The past fills up what little space my crying has left in my mind. Fighting, twins. Arguing, parents. Arguing, Axel. Laura’s laughter, Marion’s laughter, my serious face. Twins, parents, Axel, Laura, Marion. All their faces look down at me from above, their eyes surround me, full of worry, trying to stop my crying. Wasted life. Useless life. Carnivorous books. The eyes of all my loved ones looking at me, accusing: “you have hurt us.” Axel, the car rolling across the highway at dizzying speed. A sharp, interminable whistling. Shouts, running, confusion.

“Enough!”

My wrenching cry rises up to the clouds, passes over the rocks, and is lost in the vastness of the sea. Absolute silence. Slowly my lungs recover their normal rhythm. I toss myself down on the ground, looking up. I’ve finally stopped crying. I feel strangely fine. The clouds dance. I stare up at the sky until the moon begins to disappear. When dawn comes the temperature drops suddenly, and I bundle myself up in my jacket. The places that were ripped during my fall are gone; the cloth has mended itself. The thing I took from the monk’s cell is still in my pocket. I take it out to look at it by the first rays of the sun. When I open my hand, a small, blindingly white branch forces me to squeeze my eyes shut. I have to show the others what I’ve found. I stand up.

I feel a little dizzy.

Just a little.

Everything goes black.

I collapse onto the sand.

––––––––

“M
organ, did you wrap the branch up like I told you to?”

“Yes.”

“Good. No one move her. She should come to any moment.”

I think I hear Sherlock’s voice. I open my eyes and see the faces of the people who are going to be my companions for all eternity.

“Are you all right?” asks Beatrice, clearly worried.

“Yes. I’m just a little dizzy.”

“Do you think you can get up?” asks Sherlock gently. I move my eyes to answer that I can.

Morgan and Sherlock help me up, and we start walking back to Beatrice’s house. I walk by myself, per Sherlock’s instructions, to keep from looking suspicious, but my companions are on the alert in case they need to rescue me. Apparently ever since Heathcliff hit Beatrice and knocked her out, the whole Sphere has been talking about it. Beatrice doesn’t lose consciousness in her role; no one had ever seen anything outside their roles; it had never happened before. The Sphereans are convinced something really strange is going on. Sherlock and Morgan have had to concoct all kinds of preposterous explanations for everything out of the ordinary. As we walk my companions watch our surroundings carefully. When they are sure there aren’t any other Sphereans around, they fill me on the details, little by little. I try to engrave the information in my memory. They’ve invented a role for me so that if anyone speaks to me, nothing will seem out of place. I’m supposed to say that I’ve been recently published. Judging by my companions’ faces, everything in the Sphere has been turned upside-down, but luckily no one suspects the disappearances—yet.

When we reach Beatrice’s house they make me lie down on the hard bed.

“You could even do that thing you like so much, if you want,” Beatrice says, smiling sweetly at me.

“Sleep? Really, I’m fine.”

I try to sit up. It would be absurd to go to sleep now that I know my situation won’t change no matter what I do. I have all of eternity to rest.

“Stay in bed!” Sherlock orders. His authority is impossible to contradict.

My heads sinks obediently back into the pillow that Beatrice brought me. The dizziness hasn’t actually gone away entirely, which I can’t understand. Morgan takes one look at me and lays her hand on my forehead. I feel instantaneous relief.

“Don’t get up yet, even if you do feel better,” she says brusquely. It seems like she’s just being practical, and it’s nothing personal.

Sherlock and Morgan leave the room and Beatrice sits down beside the bed. The murmur of voices in the hall is barely audible; it sounds like something fluid, like the rise and fall of the ocean. After a few minutes I think I hear the door to the street.

I don’t have any idea how long I’ve been asleep. When I open my eyes it feels like a lot of time has passed. Beatrice is sitting next to the window in front of a crude mirror made of thick glass. She’s using a long razor to shave the edge of hair, just above her forehead. Her skill is surprising, especially given that the mirror, like all the others in this eerie world, doesn’t reflect anything at all. I watch, hypnotized by her movements. I admire the perfect half-moon that frames her face. Once she’s finished, she wraps up the razor and the mirror with great care.

“You’re awake!” she says in her silky voice, and comes over to me. I admire the way she slips over to the bed, like she’s walking on a cushion made of clouds. I think that’s one of the things I like most about Beatrice, that ethereal feeling she has.

“What are you doing?”

“Maintenance work on this vehicle the Creator has given me,” she answers, with an airy giggle.

“You were shaving your head...”

“My forehead,” she points out.

“Well, really the front part of your head.”

“Or the back part of my forehead,” Beatrice’s elegant hand covers a mischievous smile. I realize that I’ve never seen her smile openly.

“Sure, whichever. But why? Morgan doesn’t do that.”

“She belongs to another culture. We have different standards of beauty.”

I try to sit up but have to lie back down right away.

“I feel like all the blood has been drained right out of me!”

“That is because your senses are still deadened. That myrtle is very powerful. You should never have touched that little branch. It is a very dangerous instrument. You don’t know how worried Mr. Holmes was—how worried we all were. Last night he did nothing but ask after you. He was convinced that something had happened to you; he was afraid that you had gone back to the monastery on your own. He was uneasy, and more serious than usual. I have to confess that he was the one who organized the search for you, and not the other two of us. Forgive us!”

“It’s no big deal...” I’m surprised that Sherlock was worried about me. “But tell me—what was it you said before about the branch? It’s powerful?”

“Yes. Right. The little branch from Ambrosio’s cell is part of his dark role.” I stretch out my neck like a turtle, waiting for an explanation that, as usual, Beatrice holds back. “What do you know about Ambrosio?” she asks me carefully.

“Practically nothing.”

“Do you know Matilda?” I shake my head no. “All right, I shall tell you,” says Beatrice with resignation. “But only so you may be aware of the danger that you put yourself in, sneaking into the cell of that... that monk. Matilda is a young woman, who at the beginning of her role passes as a male novice in order to be close to Ambrosio. Then she confesses her love for him. He spurns her every time she confesses her love.”

“Because he prefers other women, I suppose.”

“Just so. But Matilda never gives up. Every time, in the intermediate part of her role, she gives the little myrtle branch to Ambrosio... you could say it’s so he can get everything he desires. It’s a sign that she is willing to do anything for him. That woman is sent from the dark one, do you understand?”

“What dark one?”

“The evil...”

“Lucifer?”

With one finger Beatrice traces a quill and inkwell on her chest.

“I never said it. But yes, there are some who say that Matilda is the very... Him, the evil one, in the form of a woman.”

“What does the branch do exactly?”

“Numbs one’s senses, and opens all doors.”

“I understand. That’s what Ambrosio uses for his
mischief
,” I say, choosing my words carefully so that I don’t wound Beatrice’s sensibilities any further. I watch as a nasty smile spreads across her face. “What is it? What are you so happy about?”

“It is what Ambrosio
used
. He can’t any longer, because you...”

Beatrice can’t find the word.

“Because I stole it.”

“Yes, because you took it,” she says, blushing slightly.

“Where’s the myrtle branch now?”

Just as I’m asking the question, Morgan comes in. She stops dead when she hears me. Beatrice goes stiff, like she’s been turned into stone, and Morgan grabs her arm and drags her out of the room.

“Can you really not keep your mouth shut?” I can hear Morgan’s words perfectly since she’s too upset to keep her voice down. “You knew exactly what instructions Holmes gave you! Isn’t it clear to you how worried he is? How worried he is about the... the unpublished girl?” I can’t hear what Beatrice is saying, if she’s saying anything at all. “You know if it were up to me I’d let her go right into Ali Baba’s cave,” Morgan shouts, “What do I care? Let her take all the risks she wants. But Holmes said quite clearly that we have to protect her.”

I try to get up. It isn’t fair for Beatrice to have to face Morgan alone. After all, I was the one who asked about the little branch. I go into the kitchen slowly, still feeling quite weak. Morgan falls silent when she sees me.

“What’s going on?” I ask. Neither of them answers. Beatrice looks down at the ground and Morgan looks toward the window. “I know you were arguing about me. Why?”

“Because Beatrice—yet again—couldn’t complete even the simplest task she was given!” Morgan bursts out.

Beatrice sits down at the table and rests her head in her hand.

“All right, all right, it’s not so bad. She hasn’t told me anything I shouldn’t know. Besides, she was only answering my questions. Now I have the information I needed.”

“That’s exactly what Holmes forbade. You weren’t supposed to know anything more about Ambrosio.”

“You mean... he wants me out of the investigation?” I ask, feeling a mixture of worry and injured pride.

I can understand Sherlock kicking me out of the group. I’m the only one who has dared to act outside of his instructions. Maybe the respect they all show him isn’t due to his skill as an investigator so much as to the fact that he punishes anyone who disobeys him. But it would really hurt me a lot to have to stop investigating.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” I whisper.

“He only wants to protect you,” Beatrice explains. “He knows what you’re like. He says that you have your own character. Your lack of a role makes you unpredictable, makes you get into trouble. That is how he explained it to us.”

“Your lack of a role puts the investigation in danger,” mutters Morgan.

“You know it’s more about her than about the investigation,” says Beatrice.

“I can’t stand your holier-than-thou...” hisses Morgan.

“Enough already. I’m sorry. I don’t want you fighting about me anymore. You’re both right, what I did was really reckless. I’ll talk with Sherlock, I promise.” Neither one of them looks at me. They seem to be minding their own business, but occasionally one of them shoots a sidelong glance at the other, and I’m afraid a spark could trigger a fight at any moment. “Why wait? I’ll go talk to him right now.”

I go back to the bedroom to put on my shoes and look for my jacket. When I go out to the hall I find them both looking alarmed.

“You can’t go out; you’re still weak,” Beatrice’s voice is full of anguish.

“You’re not going anywhere,” says Morgan, standing in my way.

“I am too. I’m going to see Sherlock right now.”

Morgan tries to drill into me with her empty eye sockets, like she’s done so many times since I met her. She stares at me and I stare right back. Somehow I know she’s trying to communicate telepathically with me. It doesn’t scare me anymore. I know both sides of her, and she isn’t as fierce as she seems. Besides, I’m dead—what is there to be afraid of? I’m planning on being very different in eternity from how I was in life, that’s for sure.

“Out of the way,” I say, moving her arm unceremoniously. I walk past her, stop, and turn around. “You know your telepathy doesn’t work on me, Morgan. Don’t wear yourself out.”

When I reach the St Mary’s gardens I look up and see the two women pressed against the window, watching me with concern and astonishment. I stalk off, determined to find the detective. I know I have to apologize to him. I’ll do whatever it takes to stay on this case. As soon as I walk through the gate of the St Mary’s gardens and step into the street, I come face-to-face with Sherlock. He jumps back when he sees me. I think he practically swallowed his pipe.