Marianne, the Madame, and the Momentary Gods (4 page)

‘Well, this has been Papa’s home for a long time.’ Cloud-haired mama had laughed, looking out at the wide, verdant acres. ‘So I guess it has to be mine as well.’

‘This is my home,’ Harvey had once said from horse-back, gesturing with one arm at all the lordly expanse of it. ’Mine.’

‘Papa’s,’ Marianne had corrected, frightened by the gloating look in Harvey’s eyes. Now, meeting Madame, Harvey’s aunt, Papa’s first wife’s sister, Marianne saw that same look. A kind of gloating. As though everything here actually belonged to her though no one knew it just yet. This visit was a new thing. It had not happened before. So, something had changed.

‘So this is Marianne,’ Madame Delubovoska said, smiling a brittle, terrible smile. ‘Little Marianne.’ Her eyes bored into Marianne’s, questioning, demanding eyes.

Marianne felt as though she were about to choke. Her throat was swollen shut and her face was turning color. She could not breathe. Her body screamed for air.

Something moved inside her mind, as though a tenant had come into a room of it, walking very purposefully, already speaking as she entered. ‘I am a castle of adamant,’ said the voice of
Marianne
and Marianne’s fist tightened in an unconscious, symbolic gesture and the choking stopped. Marianne did not fight the voice or the gesture. She relaxed to let them have their way. Madame had done something dreadful, something terribly frightening, but evidently the grown-up
Marianne
understood and was competent to do something about it, even though this had not happened in precisely this way before.

Madame looked puzzled, though only for an instant, before Papa demanded her attention. Then she turned to him, taking his hands, taking Mama’s, greeting them, making some statement or other to which they both nodded agreeably. The voice inside Marianne said, ‘See, both of them nodding at her? They’re agreeing to whatever she’s saying. That puts them in her power, Marianne. In hers and in Harvey’s.’

Harvey stood just behind his aunt, his eyes fixed on her every movement, strangely glittering eyes.

‘Now, Marianne,’ said the voice with a sad certainty. ‘It must be now. We can’t wait. You see what’s happening? Another day and it will be too late!’

Marianne did see. Death was in Harvey’s eyes. He wanted his inheritance. He wanted it now. Or, perhaps Madame Delubovoska wanted it through him. ‘Harvey,’ Marianne asked, suddenly and surprisingly, drawing all their eyes, ‘will you take me riding with you in the morning?’ It was not her own voice, not her young voice, and it surprised them both. ’Please,’ she added, in her own persona, the word coming out in a childish plea, almost a whine.

‘Well, of course he will!’ Madame said in a tone of devilish amusement, as though she would have chosen precisely that. ’He wouldn’t miss a ride with his little sister, not for anything.’ And she turned to Harvey imperiously, the very movement a command, her eyes demanding obedience.

Then the party moved out of the lofty entry way and became only ordinary. Harvey went off to his room to unpack. Madame had tea with Mama and Papa in the library. She would stay, she said, only for an hour. Then she must go. It was all very civilized, and Marianne sat with them, sipping her own tea, cold as ice inside herself where that other
Marianne
watched and watched. ‘You see,’ said the adult
Marianne
voice. ‘Look at her!’

Marianne looked, seeing something horrible in the woman’s eyes. Pain and terror for Mama, first, then for Papa, and perhaps, at last, for Marianne herself. ‘You see!’ the voice demanded.

‘Mama, may I be excused?’ she begged, sweat standing out on her forehead. ‘Please.’

‘What’s the matter, Princess? Not feeling well?’ Mama saw something in Marianne’s eyes, for she asked no more questions. ‘Run on. I’ll be up to see you in a moment.’

And so she had escaped, she and that other she both, to go up to Marianne’s room and sit crouched over the windowsill, leaning out into the quiet airs of early fall. The voice spoke to her. ‘It’s all right. Listen, Marianne. It will all be taken care of.’

‘What am I to do?’ she asked that other person, that grown-up voice. ‘Tell me, what am I to do?’

‘Go riding with Harvey,’ the voice said. ‘Go past the church, the house, the tree, the wall, the shelter, then on up Bitter River Road, into the forest. That’s all. I summoned the momentary gods to help you, and they will take care of it.’

Was this real? She couldn’t tell. ‘That’s all I have to do. Nothing other than that?’

‘Everything else has been arranged.’

Marianne began to cry.

‘Shhh, shhh,’ the voice comforted her. ‘Shhh. I’m sorry, dear one. I’m sorry little Marianne. Sorry to treat you so, use you so. But Cloud-haired mama will die, otherwise. Papa will die. Madame and Harvey will choke the life out of them in just the way she was testing on you when she first came in, to see if you were vulnerable. Then, when Mama and Papa are dead, they’ll take years to do the same to me, you, us.’

‘Why? Why?’ She knew why. It was a plea for sympathy rather than for information, but the voice replied as though she had not really known.

‘Why? For money, little girl. For all these lands and the money in the bank, Papa’s, Mama’s. There is more of it than you can imagine, and most of it will go to Harvey when they die. But a lot of it comes to you, Marianne, to you, me, us, and if we die, it goes to charity. Good works. Feed the hungry, rock the baby, build the hospital. You know, Marianne. Not to Harvey. But he is a trustee! So, he won’t do us in, not just yet. Later. When he’s had a chance to use it all up.’

‘And she… that aunt of his, she’s in on it?’

‘Why, Marianne, she’s
it
. She’s taught him everything he knows.’

‘What does she want?’

‘The money, Marianne. Money is power. Lubovosk is a poor little country, and she needs money. Papa is very, very wealthy. Once Harvey has it, she has him. She will siphon it off, through him. He thinks he can do what he pleases. She knows he will do only what she allows.’

Marianne didn’t understand it. She knew about greed and desire for money. For power. But she couldn’t believe anyone would kill Mama for it. Or Papa. And yet, she had looked deep into Madame’s eyes. After that, anyone would believe.

‘All I have to do is go riding?’

‘That’s all you have to do.’

She could not really know whether any part of this was real, and the unreality persisted through the night and into the morning as she put on her riding clothes and boots, as she greeted her horse at the stable where Harvey awaited her. ’Well, where do you want to ride, little sister?’ He had a narrow, superior grin on his face, like a fox’s face, gleeful and anticipatory. ‘I thought we’d go along the forest path if it’s all right with you.’

‘No,’ the voice said.

‘No,’ said Marianne. ‘I want to ride by the edge of town and out the Bitter River Road.’

He stared at her, one nostril lifted in scorn, somewhat angrily, as though wondering how important it was to do what she wanted. Abruptly, he decided it didn’t matter. He mounted, not waiting for her, and trotted down the driveway to the road. Reluctantly, Marianne mounted Rustram and followed him, Rustram hopping and curveting to attract her attention. She patted him absently, adrift half in fatalistic resolve, half in terror.

The road into town was only half a mile from their gates, and Marianne saw the blue Dragon Dog waiting at the intersection, the stone steeple of the church spiking the sky behind him like a raised cudgel. ‘Shh,’ said the voice. ‘Ride on.’

It was a dream, she told herself. A waking dream.

The maple tree was on the way, and the yellow Dingo Dog came out of it as she passed, nose first, then ears and neck, finally the upcurving tail, out through the bark as though it had been a curtain of gauze, trotting along behind as though she had followed Marianne every day when she rode. The wall was next, and Black Dog rose from the Virginia creeper at its base to pace along beside them. ‘Good morning,’ he said to her silently. ‘I’m glad you’ve finally gotten around to it.’

‘Shhh,’ said the voice again.

‘I think I see Bitter River Road from here,’ Harvey said. ’There’s a shortcut across the meadow.’

‘No,’ said Marianne. ‘I need to see something at the end of this block.’ She must dream this thing as she had been told, even though it wasn’t real.

‘You’re becoming very unaccommodating, I must say,’ Harvey sneered. ‘Though you’ve grown up amazingly while I’ve been gone. Almost as pretty as your mama. Might be worth kissing, Marianne, pet. Think I’ll test that when we get home.’

Marianne stared at him, cold in her belly. ‘No,’ she said. ’You won’t.’ Dream or not, she didn’t want him to touch her.

He laughed, reaching out to stroke her chest where her breasts were just beginning to swell. ‘Oh, won’t we?’

She shuddered away from him as they passed the house of the old Chinese woman, and the Foo Dog came from under the porch, high as her armpit and red as a flower pot. ’One more,’ the red dog said conversationally. ‘Only one more.’

‘I know,’ said Marianne, aloud.

‘Did you say something, little sister?’ Harvey asked.

‘Not to you,’ said Marianne. They went on down the road. The shelter lay on the left, a vast rockpile built during WPA days, with a fanciful roof and a great chimney up the middle. At one time it had been used as a site for picnics, but no one used it any more. Ferns grew in crevices among the stones. The entrance was blocked by a forest of burdock, and the Wolf Dog came through the leaves as though they were smoke. She was silver in the sunlight, glittering. Her plumy tail waved a greeting and she looked at Marianne out of eyes like great amber lamps.

‘All here,’ said Black Dog.

‘All here,’ agreed the Dragon Dog and the Foo Dog.

‘Hmmm,’ growled the wolf, deep in her throat.

The Dingo was silent, sneaking looks at the others out of the sides of her eyes.

Marianne touched Rustram with her heels and he sprang obediently into a canter along the dirt road. She did not know where they were going, but someone did. She did not need to look at them to know the five momentary gods were keeping easy pace. In the shapes that other
Marianne
had assigned to them? Or in their own shapes? Which?

‘Come back here, you little witch,’ Harvey shouted, irritated. He wasn’t as good a rider as Marianne. Horses didn’t like him, and in any case, his horse was no match for Rustram. Both these things annoyed him, and he clattered after her, furious at being outrun. She fled on, the dogs tight at her heels, around the curve of the River Road and under a huge oak that stood in a clutter of boulders at the forest’s edge.

‘Stop here,’ the voice said.

‘Here,’ said several of the momentary gods, all at once.

She stopped, turned, waited to see what would happen.

Harvey rode toward her, his face crimson with anger, his whip hand raised. He got angry easily. Perhaps he would whip his horse. Perhaps he would whip her. He had not decided when the dogs erupted from the underbrush and were suddenly all around him. A pack of curs, he thought, mongrel whelps appearing out of the underbrush all in a moment. One of them, a large, gray one, leaped for the throat of his horse. Another caught at his ankle, tearing him from his seat. It was the huge, black one that caught his hand, the one holding the whip, and jerked him off of the horse, down. He put out his other hand to protect himself from the rock he saw beneath him. Too late.

He felt the rock hit the back of his head, crushingly.

He was not unconscious.

He could still see. She was sitting on her horse, staring at him. At him. Not at the dogs. The dogs. Sitting around her, looking at him also. Licking their mouths. A yellow one burrowing into its shoulder as though for a flea.

They’re yours,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Yours.’

‘Not mine,’ she shook her head. ‘Not mine, Harvey.’ It was all a dream. Her pulse was not fast. There was no feeling about it. He lay there and she was not even glad, not even sorry. She dreamed she said, ‘You and your aunt shouldn’t have planned to kill Mama and Papa. You really shouldn’t have.’

‘How did you find out? Bitch,’ he snarled. It was the last word he ever said. Something beneath him broke. He felt an abrupt, almost painless cracking in his neck, and then all feeling ceased.

‘What now?’ she whispered. Perhaps she would wake up now.

‘Ride home, very fast, and tell them what happened,’ said her voice.

She rode. She told them. Dogs, she said, for that is what she had seen. She said they had come out of the forest, jumped at Harvey, pulled him from his horse. All of that was true, and the horror in her voice needed no pretense. She was horrified at Harvey and at herself and even at the sorcerous voice that spoke from deep inside herself. The real anger at that voice was yet to come.

There were phone calls, ambulances, men with a stretcher. There were low-voiced conversations with doctors. Later, there was a hunt for the dogs by an armed posse, but the animals had vanished as though they had never existed.

‘Can you describe them?’ the animal control officer asked Marianne. ‘How many were there?’

‘Five. I counted five,’ she said.

‘You said one big black one.’