THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (33 page)

The winter sunshine is reflected upwards from the swathes of crisp, virgin snow where shadows are cast only in tints of the softest indigo - a spectacular and sparkling alpine landscape. Some of the younger people resident here at Schloss Lethe, and perhaps liberated for the first time in weeks, have been out in the fresh air playing around in the courtyard, throwing snowballs - albeit to the accompaniment of uncommonly hushed voices for such an act, and all clad in that peculiar, bulky combination of attire in which fashion and elegance must blend by necessity with the demands of the alpine climate. Herman is here, too, as keen as anyone to experience the unseasonable warmth of the day, but also with a vital mission in mind; and to this purpose, having taken his modest luncheon outside upon the veranda at the south of the castle, he approaches the place where Poppy is seated.

‘A delightful afternoon,’ he observes, while inquiring whether he might draw up a chair to the table where the smartly though informally dressed young woman has been seated alone for some time.

‘Oh, rather. Yes,’ she replies, presenting him with a welcoming smile. She is unhatted, keen to catch the light upon her face. ‘Would you like to share one of these?’ she asks, proffering him an item of exotic-looking fruit from her plate.

‘A pomegranate?’ he exclaims with a pretence at being shocked as he leans across, taking the morsel in his hand. ‘Isn’t that the fruit of the dead?’ he adds, hoping such an unusual observation might pique her curiosity and keep her at the table - for she appears to have almost finished her luncheon.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she confirms with a further smile, this time of extraordinary serenity. ‘You must be new here?’

‘Yes. Just last week. How did you know?’

‘Oh, there’s a certain look, a way people have about them when they’re new.’

‘Really? Do tell me.’

‘Not easy to put into words. It’s a lightness, a civility of sorts - an Englishness. But whatever it is, you’ll be pleased to know you do still have it,’ is her reply, maintaining her casual air and still occupied with her meal - though a moment later her face becomes more enigmatic, a downcast expression bearing all the paradox of some personal indecision. ‘Yes - it’s the fruit of the dead,’ she concludes, returning to his earlier observation before raising her eyes once more: ‘Are you tempted?’

He examines the fruit more closely, and parts it with a knife to expose the luscious interior, the ripened seeds oozing out from the fleshy slit.

‘It’s a bit of a shocker, isn’t it - quite provocative,’ she continues with remarkable self-confidence, filling the silence for him as she lifts her handkerchief briefly to her lips. ‘A provocative fruit.’

‘I suppose so, yes,’ he replies, trying to feign indifference. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m surprised it has not been banned here. I’ve come to the conclusion that Schloss Lethe must really be a monastery in disguise.’

‘Um, perhaps it is,’ she states. ‘But at any rate you newcomers must tame your base inclinations just the same - for the sake of inner strength. And as for us ladies … well, we must strive to become the brides of Rascham. We sublimate our devotion in prayer and meditation, and offer ourselves only to him.’

He is amused at how matter-of-fact her voice sounds as she relays these sentiments, which under any normal circumstances, in any other place or time would indeed have sounded most capricious if not quite improper. She seems to comprehend the oddity of it herself, and for a moment they sit in silence as they continue to eat, exchanging the occasional glance of safe neutrality, enjoying each other’s
Englishness
in such a foreign place. Clearly, it would be pointless informing her straight away of the dangers she faces. He must gain her trust first. But how?

Her appearance, he has to admit, is outstanding - and one to which the tiny photo he still has of her cannot possibly do justice. Her mother’s description, moreover, and which he had taken at the time as being somewhat overblown, is, he now realises, entirely fair. Her eyes in proportion to her face are unusually large, and though a little melancholic in expression, possess an unremitting sparkle of raw vitality - while her lips, which are round and shapely, have a natural redness and moisture to them, indicating much the same. She has the habit of lowering her head between speaking, peering up from beneath waves of darkest brown hair, centre-parted and secured merely with a brocade headband with a jewel across her forehead, leaving the rest to cascade in a mass of unruly tresses about her shoulders. There is a certain unpredictability about her, therefore, a spontaneity: a young woman thoroughly at ease with herself and her feelings.

Yet despite this most visible impression of self-assurance, he cannot help fear for her. Wherever it might be in this huge castle that she resides, it is surely for the purposes of segregation, a place from which she will eventually be taken, and sent across that ominous stone bridge to be hidden away forever behind its doors, all the while certainly without any notion of the horrible wounds that must be inflicted upon her in the process. To be otherwise informed and yet to persist in her training would demand a level of dedication and devotion so fanatical as to defy belief.

To hold her attention and keep her with him - for they have by this time both finished their modest meal and she has already pulled on her gloves - he sets up a trick on the table top: three small egg cups upturned and into one of which he places a smooth hazel nut. She attends him even more closely then, as with considerable panache he swirls the cups around upon the tabletop, mixing them up again and again with both hands in a bewildering dance of confusion.

‘Which of these contains the nut?’ he demands, and she smiles and smiles again with a finger of uncertainty hovering and alternating from one cup to the next until, finally plucking up courage and tapping upon the central one of the three, she makes her choice. He raises it with a theatrical flourish. ‘There is no nut here, madam,’ he declares, his voice suitably hushed under the circumstances but in every other sense as boldly and provocatively intoned as if he had been upon the stage of the London Coliseum dressed in his black tails and dicky bow. ‘Try again!’

Undaunted, she needs little persuasion to do so, while he, retrieving the elusive nut and pretending to sequester it once more beneath one of the cups, repeats the shuffling and swirling. It is all so fast there is no way anybody could possibly keep track of it. And again, when she chooses, she is wrong - until finally, trying yet again, he allows her to succeed - a triumph capped with an invitation to share a pot of coffee, fetched from inside. And so, by this ingenious device, he secures more time to talk. He introduces himself more formally then, still under his assumed name of David Wilson, and she doing likewise, as Miss Penelope Peters; at which he inquires of her how long she has been here.

‘Oh, to be honest, I’m not terribly sure, any more,’ she answers, as if the question were of scant importance. ‘No really, I’m not sure. About four months, I should think. We do not have access to calendars or diaries. It’s part of our education, to cultivate detachment. We work only with the phases of the moon, actually.’

‘Really. And do you ever miss things? I mean, like home, family, friends?’

‘Oh no, not at all,’ she replies with self-assurance. ‘You see, unless we sever ourselves from family ties and the world’s superficiality and greed, we will only be tempted from the true path, drawn back again and again to mundane things and never achieve our goals. Only by complete dedication are we able to awaken the
kundalini
, the serpent power - the key to enlightenment and to a state of bliss. This is what the teachings of Rascham tell us. To do otherwise is to build up bad karma. You would understand what I mean, I’m sure?’

Yes, he understands. Karma, the ancient Sanskrit word describing the laws of cause and effect. Bad deeds in this life result in varying degrees of misery for the reincarnated soul in the next. Good karma, on the other hand, could be earned by noble deeds in the here and now and stored up for future lives, leading eventually to liberation from the senses and the endless cycles of birth, death and rebirth.

‘We are required to conduct ourselves always with the karmic laws in mind,’ she continues to explain and sips demurely at her coffee as if it were some rare and forbidden self-indulgence. ‘Aiding Rascham in his work; giving money to the Society, and so on. All this helps us to gather good karma - as does taking punishment if necessary and denying base pleasures.’

‘Um … so remind me, what then would constitute bad karma, in the estimation of Master Rascham?’ he inquires, taking his pipe from his jacket and, once sure of her having no objections, commencing upon the calming and satisfying ritual of filling it with tobacco and lighting up.

‘Bad karma ... oh well, naturally that just comes from wanting things,’ she replies, frowning as if puzzled by his ignorance and possibly, for the first time, a little suspicion playing at the corners of her eyes. He suspects, too, that the indulgence of tobacco would also not appear entirely conducive to the life of abstinence and sobriety normally expected here.

‘What kind of things?’ he asks.

‘Possessions; family; reputation, all those kinds of silly things.’

He is disappointed but not surprised by her response. It reminds him of all the other pseudo-mystical nonsense he has been served up here over the past several days - albeit told with immense charm in this instance - but really a gross distortion, he knows, a mockery of religious life, and all drawn upon so carelessly in this despicable place for their own twisted designs. It is, he knows, a suitable moment to shift the level of conversation, and this with a far more dramatic turn:

‘Tell me,
Poppy
, have you met him?’ Herman inquires, using the endearment of her pet name for the first time - and suddenly her eyes stare wide, and he sees the real person, stripped of all her defences: a confused and uncertain young woman, surprised and frightened by his knowledge - that he should have called her by that name - Poppy - one that only her closest friends or her dear mother would ever have used.

‘How ..?’

‘I will tell you in a moment how I know your name, Poppy. Only would you just answer my question? Have you met ...’

‘No - why should I tell you?’ she interrupts angrily, gathering up her things from the tabletop as if preparing to depart. ‘You are spying on me, aren’t you? Someone has sent you here to spy on me. I bet it was my father. All the way from England. They told me this would happen. How appalling!’

Herman, with a measured denial, calmly assures her this is not the case, and that her interests, and hers alone, are actually at the heart of his being here at all - which only serves to make her more guarded and mistrustful.

‘Yes ... yes, I have spoken with Rascham,’ she admits at length, remaining in her seat after a moment’s hesitation - though still defiant. Observing her like this, he is reminded of Deborah for a moment. ‘They blindfolded me, if you must know, and I was taken across into the mountain so he could meet me. It was part of my consecration as votary. I am studying to become one of his temple maidens. It’s ... it’s a great honour, actually.’

‘Is it, now? You don’t sound all that certain,’ he observes.

Poppy, although clearly irritated by such an inference, appears deep in thought for a while, as if wondering whether she really should stay and continue paying heed to this peculiar stranger who already seems to know so much about her.

‘Poppy, listen to me,’ he whispers, leaning closer - and with urgency because he has just noticed another person nearby, an older woman whose face seems vaguely familiar, observing them most intently, and none too kindly, he feels. ‘I want more than anything to be able to speak with you quietly again. Would you meet me here later, this evening?’

‘What! Have you any idea how cold it is out here after dark?’ she demands, her eyes lifting to regard him with renewed indignation. ‘Anyway, why should I do such a thing? You know the rules on mixing of the sexes. In fact, you should not even be talking to me like you are, not for so long a time as this. That is Frau Weiss over there watching us, my mentor. She is terribly strict.’

Yes, he remembers now - the woman from his first days here, the same formidable German lady who was present when he and his companions were obliged to go through the chanting ordeal and who subsequently took their colleague Marie away for her induction. He remembers her palest of blue eyes above all else. ‘Poppy, what I have to tell you - it really is jolly important,’ he continues undaunted. ‘I shan’t ask you again, or press you in any way. I will simply be here, and I will have something to share with you that will verify my integrity in this matter. Let’s say at seven this evening, dressed warmly, and I will wait for you. I only hope you will come.’