With Time and Effort

It is out of love that I find myself in St. Catherine’s Cemetery on a cloudy night, with an oil lamp in one hand and a shovel in the other. I will not lie; my stomach roils just as the sea churns nearby, and I search every howl of the wind for the constable’s whistle, and every looming shadow for a mob.

Master Hartley’s eyes are wild and his hair, normally kempt, tears madly at the sky. He is an apparition, and had I courage, I would have stopped him ere we set out this eve. But there is colour in his pallid skin again, and he grins. The first smile I’d seen in months.

“Nearly there!” he sings, and he gambols with the excited energy of a truant schoolboy enjoying a long spring day.

I pledged my loyalty to this man, who had once rescued me from a vile life of poverty and violence. And when I swore I would do anything to pull him out of his depths – those fathomless murky waters I feared would extinguish his bright flame – I meant it. But I never imagined this.

What a cruel world, to pit my oath against my deeds, and damn me both ways.

“We’re here,” he speaks, and the wind dies. I hold my breath. “And now, help me dig.”

Oh Lord, forgive me. My shovel strikes earth.

***

I was born an orphan. My father was the drunken flick of a knife at night, and my mother was the wend of the streets. My brother was called Cold, and my sister was Hunger, and she never left my side.

I fought for every penny and food scrap with the other alley beasts, though there was one beautiful autumn where I found uncommon kinship with a mangy cur I named King. We watched out for each other, and for the first time in my life I felt something more than base need. The frozen coal within my chest was struck by a spark, and smoldered.

One early winter morning, King ran into the street and under the wheels of a rich man’s carriage. I carry his final yelp with me to this day.

I hardened my heart and turned to theft, and when I’d scrimped enough coin and foes, I left the wretched city of my birth. Years later Master Hartley caught me in his stables trying to make off with his horse, and he was greatly moved by my piteous life. Instead of calling for the bailiff, he offered me a meal and a job.

“For all men are entitled to forgiveness, if they should so ask.” His belief in goodness was unwavering, an absolute certainty that with time and effort even the worst of the world’s ills could be repaired – and in his charitable view that included even me.

It was then I swore my life to him. More than a warm meal and a kind word, he showed me how I could pull myself out of the muck. He showed me purpose.

I worked in his stables and on his grounds tirelessly, ever looking for the next thing to repair, or the next worry that weighed on Master’s mind. I threw myself at these with all I was worth so that he might have peace, and I would have lived and died happily if this was all I did in life.

But no, Master had a heart of gold. He never condescended, had a mountain’s patience, and was immeasurably kind. He frequently showed me his study and his collection of artifacts from all around the globe, and I learned just how brutish my world had been.

When he travelled, I accompanied him. When he hunted, I carried his kit. We attended church together, and on holy days dined together. And when one evening over a pipe he said he considered me a friend, well, my heart nearly burst. The ember King first had lit was fanned anew into a bright flame.

And then it melted altogether, when I met Emily.

***

The sky opens up as our grisly wagon rolls down the hill to Master’s estate. Thick sheets of coastal rain soak our bones and our lamps sputter. Are these the tears of the Lord, for we have gone so far astray? Or does the Devil weep with joy at our black deeds?

“Ha ha!” Master shouts, laughing into the wild night as lightning cracks along the sky. How I longed to once more hear him laugh, and now that living rictus fills me with foreboding. “Yah, horses, yah! We’re almost there!”

The horses scream and our wagon slides through the mud. That we remain on four wheels instead of tumbling head over heels is a miracle. I grip my seat so hard I fear my fingers will snap. Only when a wheel hits a ditch and we heave nearly to the side do I exclaim. And Master laughs all the louder.

“Ring the bells!” he bellows into the roiling abyss. “It is time! It is time!” But no honest men are out on such a night to hear him.

I spare a glance over my shoulder, at our dread cargo. Rain lashes a heavy canvas, bound to the wagon with rope. And beneath it, the proof of our villainry. I turn away, unable to face it. We roll into Master’s barn and the rain stops, hammering instead on the roof above. Thunder roars ceaselessly, as does Master.

“Ha ha!” he laughs, and slaps me on the shoulder. “It is time!” He leaps to the ground and shudders with such horrid joy. Then he stops, places his hands reverently on the wagon’s siding, and looks at the canvas. And he whispers with such loud ecstasy it’s enough to drown out even the storm, “The lady of the house has returned!”

***

When I first saw Emily I was immediately smitten. I thought my life complete until that moment, and I didn’t even know what it was I was missing – what it was a man could miss. Our paths crossed most curiously.

One fine evening, with Master away on business, I walked the backroads around town alone with my thoughts, and I heard a whinny in a nearby copse. I found a sleek silver mare; saddled, bridled, but riderless. She must have sensed I was a kind stablehand, for she let me walk right up to her and take her reins, but I saw no sign of her owner. I decided to take her to Master’s estate, and spread the word in town tomorrow.

As I walked down the roads I spotted a lone woman trudging along the hedges. She wore a fine hat and dress, and had a strange wooden contraption on her shoulder, in addition to a large wooden box in her other arm. It was clear they were heavy and she was flagging.

She turned and rejoiced for the horse was hers. She chastised the mare good-naturedly and thanked me profusely, but I’m afraid I was only able to stammer in return. To my great fortune, Emily – for she told me her name – found this endearing. And when I begged to carry her burden she permitted it.

We walked to her father’s estate – an hour gone in a blink. I learned the box was a daguerreotype, a magnificent device she captured portraits with. The mechanics were beyond me, but I could listen to her talk about it without end. When she offered to show me her work, it was astounding! She captured images of men, women, beasts and vistas, all as a painter would – and with immaculate skill. She asked me if there were interesting sights around town and I told her yes, and on an impulse offered to help her with her kit. And I’ll never know how I was so blessed, but she accepted my offer.

For the next several weeks I was her guide and assistant. She had a particular interest in the sea, and we had no shortage of breathtaking cliffs and bluffs. We grew close, closer than I ever dared hope. One day, she insisted on taking my portrait. I couldn’t deny her anything, and I admit her magic hands turned this mongrel into art.

We remained on the cliffs late that day, until the stars came out, and a cold wind brought us close together. And we kissed.

It was the happiest day of my life – but. Not a moment after, she turned away, terribly upset. I feared it was my doing, but she confessed she had a horrible secret. Her father had brought her here to meet her betrothed!

Yes, she was promised to another; chattel to be passed between men of business. I felt fury rise in my chest. I professed my love for her, and vowed – foolishly! – that I would let none other come between us. And oh, my poor dear Emily, she did the same.

When she told me the name of her betrothed I felt my heart shatter anew, for it was none other than Master Hartley.

A man cannot serve two masters, and neither two opposed vows. When Master returned, I greeted him warmly and betrayed him every time he closed his eyes. Even as I prepared a great reception for Emily and her family did I drive a knife into his back. And when he confided in me that he was utterly smitten with her, and that all of his misgivings about this arrangement had evaporated, I agreed and encouraged him, like the wretched Judas goat I was.

But I could not get enough of Emily, and neither she of me. She begged us to stop and yet could not pull away. The night that the wedding date was set, we broke the most sacred of the Lord’s laws. And each day hence, our rising dread grew ever greater. The only relief we had was in each other’s arms.

I knew it couldn’t last forever. Each moment without her was torture, and each moment with a visceral reminder of our sins. My heart tore in two, between the man I swore to serve and the woman I loved more than life itself.

I knew I had to choose, but I couldn’t.

And then Emily chose for us.

With three months until the wedding, she threw herself from the cliffs.

***

I had been blinded by greed, I know that now. Master Hartley had loved her as dearly as I did, and he had shattered with the news of her fall. And now, not a day goes by I don’t regret it – all of it. Better we had never met and I spent the rest of my life admiring her from afar, than the fate she chose. The fate I forced her into.

And so I could not deny Master his mad wish. Not now, not ever again. I am bound to him, and should he drag my sorry soul through Hell itself, I’ll go.

Emily was to be his in life. I can understand him wanting to inter her in the family tomb. I shake the water from my coat and shiver from a bone-deep chill. I spare but a glance at our wagon – at… her. And shiver again.

“Please,” Master gestures to her. “It is time.”

I swallow hard. I am sworn to serve. This is my penance. I unbind the ropes and carefully pick up the canvas. I dare not unwrap it. I dare not think about what rests precariously in my hands. I start towards the family crypts.

“No,” says Master. “Not that way. To my lab.”

To the lab? Whatever for? Master sets off at a brisk pace and I hurry behind him. Perhaps… well, what do I know of funerals? Perhaps it’s embalming.

I have not been in the lab since her fall, and Master has all but lived within, even taking his meals there. The room has changed. It is filled with strange glass vessels, copper tubes, and inconceivable machines. And all of them surround a table.

“Please, place her there,” he says. I obey, and he brings the machines to life through means I do not understand. In the cold light of the oil lamps, I see things spinning and whirring and pumping. And he stands over the table, over Emily, with a book in his hands.

“What is this, Master?”

He sets the book on the table and pulls back the canvas. Underneath is the burial shroud, and I turn away. I cannot possibly see her like this. Cannot even conceive of it!

“With time and effort even the worst of the world’s ills can be repaired,” he says. “And what greater illness is there?”

I hear a wet crunch and a metallic jangling, as he does something at the table. I dare not look, and what I see of his shadow gives me nightmares.

“Illness, Master?” I say.

“I have found great writings on the subject, by a brilliant scholar named Abdul Alhazred. Tonight, I reproduce his work.”

The machines begin groaning and whirring faster, and I see terrible flashes of galvanic energy arcing throughout the room, mirroring the lightning storm above. “Sir?”

“I intend to cure Emily of her death.”

The machines roar and unnatural light strobes in the room. Something starts hissing and smoke fills the air. I scream – I think – and cower, and something near me vents a foul steam.

And then as suddenly as it began, all is still.

“Arise, my love,” Master says.

I dare not open more than one eye, and spy his shadow over the table with his arms raised high. And then I see something stir. And rise.

Master chuckles. It’s a low, throaty thing at first, and then rises and grows, a lifetime of laughter dammed up by misery and finally freed. He weeps with joy as Emily – Emily! – stands. She lurches unsteadily on her feet – each footfall a sopping, meaty crunch – and when she reaches out for him he embraces her, blubbering. He weeps with sorrow and relief, a man who refuses to be bereaved.

He pulls her close and she embraces him tighter. “Time and effort!” he cries, his words shredded by bliss and misery and all things in-between.

And then, I hear a raspy, slick breath – a death rattle – as Emily’s lungs draw air. And then, she brings her face to his – and I hear the wet rip of meat tearing and sinews snapping and bone breaking.

Master screams, and though we are indoors the room is filled with red sea spray.

“Help–!” is the last thing I ever hear him say. The last thing I hear in that horrid room, in that accursed estate. I turn and flee, and run as fast as my legs take me. I run into the night and into the storm, and never look back.