The Sphere (8 page)

“Hey! Excuse me!” I shout, or try to.

My voice is stuck in my throat. At least my feet are moving again.

When I peek inside the chapel I see the woman sitting on one of the benches in the front. The scant light piercing the dense fog falls gently on the stained glass windows of St Salvator’s chapel. A single ray sneaks boldly through to land right on a pointed object sitting in the center of the altar. It’s large and elongated, a quill like people used to write with. The church is empty apart from the woman. A bell rings and a priest comes out. I pull my head back instinctively and stand very still, hidden under the arch. The seagulls screech furiously. I wonder if animals go to the same place as people when they die.

I’M NOT DEAD!

The defiant cry echoes in my head again. I go back out to the lawn to check the time on the clock tower... there’s no clock! The tower has lost its clock. Bewildered, I collapse onto the stone bench attached to the façade of the church and hang my head, feeling truly small and helpless. My toes turn in toward each other. I never should have gotten in the car with that jerk who pointed out my awkward feet, and I never should have trusted Axel. This is all his fault. I shouldn’t feel bad about leaving the party with Carl. I never would have done it if Axel hadn’t treated me the way he did.

One droplet splashes onto a paving stone, then another. Tears come pouring down but I don’t try to stop them. I never cry, but today the Scottish summer rain falls lightly on the Quad and I just let my tears fall, let them soak my knees. I never cry. I’m not a crier. But now it feels like my tears are washing away time, and I’m glad. I can almost forget where I am, who I am. My fear is ebbing, and all this nonsense along with it.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I jerk back.

“Are you all right?” asks a silky voice.

My eyes sweep upward, taking in a black cape and a very pale face framed by a lace veil. The eye sockets are empty, but the features are so perfect and harmonious that the lack of eyes isn’t unsettling. I stand up in slow motion, my whole body trembling, out of my control. I’m still sobbing, tears everywhere. The woman embraces me. I feel the touch of wood, just like with the gypsy, but this is different—warm in spite of its stiffness.

“Are you lost?” asks the woman, with incredible tenderness.

I nod my head yes and then shake my head no. I know where I am, at least in theory... Shit! I’ve never felt so lost!

“If you tell me a little about yourself, I shall try to help you. Perhaps I know where you are supposed to live... I am Beatrice. What is your name?”

“Eurydice,” I answer weakly.

“Have you just been published?”

I don’t know what to say.

“I see, I see, don’t fret. You may be a reprint of our Eurydice, though I do not think so.” The woman brings her kind face close to mine to inspect me. “No, no, not a reprint. Why are you here?” I dry my eyes with the back of my hand and look at her, disconcerted. “This is not your place.”

“I know.”

“Where do you live?”

I point in the direction of our summer house and then think of what happened last night. I open my mouth and close it again without making a sound, and let my arm fall. It all seems pointless.

“Would you like some tea? I’m quite sure that will make you feel better. Let me make a suggestion: we’ll go to my house, have some tea, and then together we shall try and find out where you’re meant to live.”

This woman makes me feel safe, makes me feel calmer even in this surreal situation. Unlike every other time in my life, I don’t feel any doubt. An internal voice tells me that this woman is a guide.
The
guide. I ignore my second internal voice, the one that says stop thinking crazy thoughts right this instant. A guide without eyes? A total stranger? But the woman radiates a halo of calm and kindness that I just can’t explain. It’s... it’s like she’s some kind of angel. I start walking, my arm in hers. She treats me warmly, like a friend, and the soft touch of her wooden arm eases the cold I feel inside. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her form is balanced; her wood has been polished until it’s perfectly smooth. But sanity is about to win the struggle in my mutant brain. In another second I’ll decide to go off on my own...

“Why are you crying?” she asks in her gossamer voice.

I don’t answer. Actually, we’ve been walking for a while without speaking, but that doesn’t seem to bother Beatrice. She walks gracefully, accepting my silence as an answer. She emits some kind of soothing force. I don’t know how to describe it, it’s like something very pure, as if nothing bad could happen as long as I’m near her. I feel like she might be a heavenly guide... okay, I’m rambling.

“Who are you?” I ask suddenly.

“Beatrice,” she answers, smiling. 

“No, I mean... I don’t know. Why did you come over and talk to me? Why did you invite me to your house?”

“You were crying.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“A good reason to invite you for tea, don’t you think? Tea is always a good start to a friendship.”

Beatrice nods her head elegantly and her light veil ripples in the wind, which is finally growing gentler. Like I said, she’s some kind of wooden angel.

“Nobody’s helped me until now.”

I say it even though I know it’s not exactly true. They’ve all sought out my company, the clowns, the gypsy... how different from when I was alive!

...Enough! Enough of this crap! I guess my silent shout made me grimace, because Beatrice is looking at me.

“Did they not welcome you properly?”

I can’t bring myself to say that everyone I’ve met since the accident has been perfectly polite, it’s just that they were also terrifying. I’m sorry, but I’m not used to empty eye sockets. Beatrice gives my shoulders a comforting squeeze.

“Everything will be all right,” she tells me with a smile.

As strange as it seems I feel that I can trust her. I can’t help feeling like she’s my savior.

“Are you going to tell me how to get out of here?” I ask, sounding like a hopeful little girl.

Beatrice doesn’t answer. I guess I deserve it; she’s repaying me in kind. It’s not like I’ve been too talkative. We turn toward South Street. Nearly everything is in ruins or more run-down than I remember it being. Some businesses are different. There are old shops instead of the regular stores, and where the big bookstore on the corner used to be there’s a maternity hospital. In the distance a tall shape is walking toward us—the first person we’ve crossed paths with in all this time. It’s a man wearing a long coat and a cap with earflaps tied on top. He walks along with his back straight, one hand in his pocket and the other periodically reaching for the pipe in his mouth.

“Good day to you,” says the man in a pompous tone. “My own day is becoming even more lovely now that I have had the good fortune to encounter you, my cherished Beatrice.”

“Good day,” she answers, bobbing her head. “This is my friend Eurydice.”

Friend? I wouldn’t say that. The man greets me with a bow that I do my best to match.

“You seem worried, Mr. Ho—”

“William, dear Beatrice, call me William. I thought we’d already agreed on that, isn’t that right?”

“Forgive me, so we had. You seem worried, William. Is something troubling you?”

The man takes the pipe out of his mouth and makes an indecipherable gesture. Obviously he has no eyes; at this point I’d be surprised to meet someone who did. But it’s not the missing eyes that make his face so difficult to read. Up until now everyone—even without eyes—has been expressive. Beatrice, for example, radiates unmistakable sweetness. This man, on the other hand... William... How can Beatrice tell he’s worried? She must have a sixth sense; she certainly did with me.

“There’s nothing worrying me, darling Beatrice. Only I do wonder, since I’ve had the good luck to happen upon you, whether you might have seen Karenina recently.”

“Anna?”

“Quite right.”

“Well, no. I haven’t seen her for some time. But she should be by the train tracks. Have you looked there?”

“Yes, I looked at the tracks,” William answers, as if he’s avoiding the subject.

“And at her house? Anna is not at home?” Beatrice’s voice trembles.

William clears his throat and turns to look at me. Well, normally I would say he was looking at me, but his face is so blank... Suddenly Beatrice’s arm falls to her side.

“My dear Beatrice! Are you well? Your lovely eyes are dim!”

It’s clear that Beatrice isn’t well. I don’t know how I can tell—I just know it. Her wooden face seems emaciated. But to claim that her nonexistent eyes are growing dim...

“The shadow...”

Beatrice’s voice is barely audible, but William jumps back, startled.

“Don’t speak, my beautiful lady, don’t speak.”

“The shadow,” Beatrice says again, forcefully.

“If you’ll allow me, miss,” William says to me. “I believe that it is of the utmost importance to take Beatrice somewhere so she can recover. Obviously she is unwell, and now is not the best time for socializing. We shall see you another time.”

“I want Eurydice with me. She is the answer to my prayers. The Creator has sent her. She is the savior.”

“Me?” I ask, astonished.

“My beloved Beatrice, this hardly seems like the proper time to...”

“I will not be separated from her,” insists Beatrice weakly. “We were going to my house to have tea, and our plan has not changed. If you would care to join us, you are most welcome.”

Now I’m the one offering my arm to Beatrice. William hesitates for a few seconds and finally decides to come with us.

“Dear, beautiful Beatrice...”

“I am perfectly well, truly. Let’s go to my house.”

We go into the gardens that lead to St Mary’s College, passing under the stone arch and through the barred gate with the shield. Finally, something that hasn’t changed! The flowers and the trees are right where they belong and everything is the same. In black and white, but still the same. There’s the old oak tree, and there’s the little Celtic fountain made of stone. I feel encouraged—maybe everything is finally going back to normal. Beatrice gently takes her arm from mine and goes over to the entrance of the building on the right. She takes out an enormous rusty key wrapped in a cloth and unlocks the door with a practiced motion.

“But this is the school of divinity!” I exclaim.

“Pardon?” Beatrice smiles, amused.

“The school...”

Evidently things are going back to normal. People are ignoring me, which I’m used to. The other two go in, and I follow. The interior is quite plain—very little furniture, only the necessities. I’m surprised to see that it’s an apartment. There are no classrooms, and not a single clue that this is, or was, part of the university. Beatrice asks me to come with her to the kitchen to get the tea ready while William stays in the living room. I begin to doubt my intuition. Even though Beatrice has that calming air about her, she could be totally crazy. She did say I was the savior. Whose savior? Me?

“What did you mean when you said I was the answer to your prayers?”

Beatrice moves her hands with grace and skill. She sets a china teapot delicately on the counter, and then takes a wooden box down from the shelf. It’s engraved with flowers, and must have been very beautiful once, though now it’s worn and chipped. Beatrice opens it and takes a deep breath, sighing with satisfaction. She holds the box up for me, but I can’t smell a thing.

“Tea always soothes my senses,” she says.

She takes out a spoon and puts four spoonsful of tea into the pot.

“One for each guest, and one for the pot,” she says in a voice like a silver bell. Softly she sets the porcelain lid back in place. “We mustn’t let the aroma escape. The merchants that bring this little pleasure back from the east do a marvelous job of explaining the importance of the aroma.”

Beatrice moves smoothly to an old cupboard, takes out a metal container, and fills it with water from a great clay jar. My eyes follow her all around the kitchen, full of anticipation, heavy with doubt. I’m sure that if anyone normal could see my eyes right now they’d be surprised by their changing color. That happens when I’m disconcerted. Why doesn’t Beatrice answer my question? What made her think I could be the answer to her prayers? And above all—what did she pray for?

Beatrice sets the metal container down on the cast iron stove, opens the little door below, and blows on the coals to revive them. She disappears to the other end of the kitchen and comes back with some firewood, which she puts inside. I keep waiting for my answer, but she doesn’t seem interested in giving it to me. She closes the stove door gently and turns around to face me.

“The Sphere is perfect. It always has been. And so it must be, for the Creator is in charge of it.”

“What sphere?” I ask. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the term. Beatrice looks at me with such shock that I feel embarrassed. “I mean, right, yeah... the sphere. Of course.”

“As I was saying, the Sphere is perfect. However, of late something very subtle seems to be tarnishing its perfection. I feel it as a shadow, something that weighs me down inside. Sometimes I even seem to see it. May the Creator forgive me, but I feel helpless. I don’t know how to pinpoint what is happening, but I feel the suffering of the other inhabitants of the Sphere, and I know it is greater now than ever. This is one of the duties the Creator has given me: to feel the suffering of others.”

I look at Beatrice’s face. I really have lost what’s left of my mind: she looks trustworthy. I’m intrigued. I don’t know what sort of wood she’s made out of, but it’s extremely pale. Now that she’s taken her veil off I can see that her hairline starts quite far back, well before her forehead. I wouldn’t call her pretty, but she definitely has a kind of gentleness that I’ve never seen before.

“Things are changing, nothing is as it was...” she says sorrowfully. With each word her face becomes sadder and sadder.

“I know!” I clap a hand over my mouth, sorry for interrupting. Beatrice motions for me to go on. “It was something sudden,” I say. Beatrice nods. “Nothing is like before. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a punishment.”