FANTASIA

When Rupert Powell came floating down from the sky, he lay upon a hearsely sofa - his arms crossed, and eyes shut for good. On the stoop of St. Crispin’s, to which he descended, stood Emory Fischer and the vicar of the parish, Father Faulkner.

The parish of Gallowsby was not so dissimilar to any other found in the valleys of the Yorkshire Dales. It was a small, unassuming place, of each person Father knew by name. But he would be pained to call the society that joined him on this night by “parishioners,” as they had scarcely been seen to attend mass in the last few years. Tonight, though, it was more than a service for which Emory Fischer sought out St. Crispin’s. He had come to beg for sanctuary, and Father Faulkner was never so miserly as to refuse it.

“It is essential that the body not be too long deceased for my craft to work.” Father said to Emory.

“Please, don’t call him that,” Emory replied coldly. His arm outstretched, controlling the body’s unearthly descent. “Especially in-front of Helen. She couldn’t bear it. Rupert. His name is Rupert Powell.” And so, Father called the body as he wished. “It has not been longer than two hours. Will he do?”

And now the sofa was at their feet. A chaise longue, it was already macabre in its fashion - all black leather and mahogany wood - but this glamour was only enhanced by that of the corpse’s.

They stood there gravely for a moment, the sofa hovering just above the ground with Rupert Powell in repose. Fresh wounds tore down his face, and bruises marked his skin. He had begun to go pale, but to the touch, he was not yet cold. “Yes,” Father said, “he will do.”

            “Do you have the clay?”

            “Better.” Father smiled, looking very pleased with himself. “I have gypsum, an altogether more suitable substance.”

            Emory was stood very still. He had no energy to move himself. Just like his friend, Rupert, his clothes were torn, skin was sooty and marred with blood, and his whole personage offended Father’s nose with a stink of smoke.

 “They all await us in the church. But my dear boy,” Father warned. “We must not delay.”

 They stepped aside, and with a wave of his hand, Emory bid the hearsely sofa enter the church. The procession was short. A few steps and they were inside St. Crispin’s flint stone walls - the night halted by candles that shrouded a baptismal font. One could be forgiven for assuming this party was gathered to commiserate the final sacrament, but they were here to celebrate the first.

            Within, there were four people to welcome them.

            The first two, Helen Powell carrying her baby, quickly went to the body of Rupert Powell, and as she buried her head woefully into his chest, Father Faulkner took his leave to some room beyond the nave.

            For all Emory could do, he looked on forlornly, knowing he could bring no to comfort her.

            The other two that joined them had remained seated, allowing Helen time to grieve her husband with some degree of intimacy; but now, the Young Man Isambard and Mrs Isambard stood up as her agony only grew louder. “Oh, my dear!” Mrs Isambard cried, running from the hold of her husband to embrace her sister. “Don’t cry too much.” She managed a smile. “We’ll have him back soon.”

            The door at the end of the nave opened, and Father Faulkner re-emerged, hobbling back in with a mortar bowl. He rested it on the alter, recovering his breath from the flights of stairs he had travelled. Isambard went up to see what he was mixing. “Gypsum?” He bellowed. “Good God, man! Why not grab a pile of horse manure while you’re at it.” His huge belly trembled as he spoke. Father gave him a withering look, as if to tell him not to interfere in arts he is unspecialised in. “I’m sure the mask will appreciate it a far sight better.” Isambard continued.

            “Indeed, horse manure was once used for this kind of magic,” Father said with a teacherly affection, massaging the mixture with his pestle all the while. “There is a sophistry to this art in which even the dullest material may be handled with an ingenuity to make it a thing to behold. But these are no longer the dark ages,” and here he raised an eyebrow, “however so it seems we are returning to them, and gypsum is a fine enough substance. From some time ago, this batch was last used for the great statesman Harold Leacon when he died in 1926; to this day I pride myself that his death mask is very much pleased with the result - it tells me so itself.”

            Isambard would not be satisfied. “And what ingredients do you favour, Father?” He went to dip his finger into the bowl as a kind of inspection, but Father pulled it from him.

“It is no easy thing to mix the gypsum as so the death mask endures.” Father replied, carrying the mortar down to the chaise-longue. “The mineral must be grounded, yes, but the pressure applied must be even-handed; the squid ink introduced, viscous; the milk added, fresh from the teat of a mourning cow. All acquired this evening.” The last part he addressed to Helen with a bow of his head. “If I may?” He gestured to the body of Rupert Powell that she for all this time wept over.

Helen stood back with her baby, and Father took this as permission to begin his work. At the alter he had swapped the pestle for a finely domed brush, and with it, he dipped into the mortar and began applying the paste liberally to the face of the corpse.

“I try to make for the smoothest application possible with this brush.” Father had taken on something of a nervous quality. It had been some time since his last successful death mask, and the circumstances which brought that society to his door that night gave him cause to tremor. To sooth his anxieties as much as theirs, he thought that a continued explanation of his process may lessen nerves. And so he went on:

 “Oftentimes, families request a certain aspect to be made of the mask, such as the omission of a cleft palate; or the deceased themselves would have provided in their Will for something distinct to be added, such as a cluster of freckles. Of course, you are beyond such frivolities, Mrs Powell. And I, myself, am not easily up to such skills. On the eyelids especially, there must be a liberal amount given so they open without friction, and that they are not too taught. Indeed, a flattering of a… shall I say, more rounded subject, may be achieved by a tightening around the ears…” Father looked up to a crowd of unimpressed faces, then giving a nervous laughed, declared the first part done. “Master Emory,” he called.

Emory knew what was to be done, and obliged.

“Of course.” He said as he bent low, bringing his face close to Rupert’s, and in blowing a cool air, he stiffened the mask. Its dark tones turned to a bright grey, and as Father pulled the mask from Rupert’s face, Isambard readied the pedestal on which it would rest: a silver pitchfork four feet tall. The mask fit quite perfectly, and in its pensive state, took on a look of stoicism that Emory remarked was bereft of Rupert’s true character in life.

A gust of heat emanated from Isambard’s staff, and in bringing it up to the mask, he did the work of a kiln, setting the paste into a permanent state of solidity.

            “Is that all?” Helen asked. “Is it ready?”

            Father Faulkner went to inspect it. Despite all that heat, it was cool to his touch. “Just one more thing remains.” He told them. “A kiss from the beloved.”

            There is no sure way to go about the last of these processes, Father Faulkner had amused himself. Many different types of magic may imbue different aspects, and as such, the subject’s character is influenced. He recollected the case of Aiden the Dweller, who was brought to life by a siren’s call and consequently always yearned for the ocean where his originator famously had never set foot in one. He related this to everyone, and added that he regarded the greatest animator, in this instance, to be the love of the widow.

            Helen took a tentative step towards the pedestal, and with a tender whisper of words no one could not decipher, kissed the mask on its cheek.

            A brazen shimmer rippled across its surface with an echoing clink.

            It was done.

            They stood there, stealing unsure looks from each other.

            Mrs Isambard frowned. “Well?” She asked. “Has it worked?”

            Isambard huffed. “It is unchanged.”

            “Now, give it some time.” Emory urged them.

            Isambard swivelled to Father in such a blazing fury, turning on his staff, that his medieval chaperon nearly swung off his head. “You! Your mixture is rotten. Go make another! And quickly!”

            Mrs Isambard leapt to Father’s defence. “Leave the man alone. This isn’t his fault, after all.” She said to him accusingly. Isambard’s fury left him in one breath, wilting from his wife’s scorn.

            “There’s no use in blaming anyone at this point.” Said Emory. “We are where we are.”

            “Yes. Hiding, with nowhere to go.” Mrs Isambard said despairingly.

            “We still have our friends, dear.” Isambard went to touch his wife’s shoulder tenderly, but she pulled away. And this domestic continued for quite an interminable amount of time until Helen yelled at all of them to stop, whilst rubbing tears from her face. She put her baby boy down and knelt to cradle the face of Rupert. His body now stiff with the unmistakable chill of death. “I just wanted him to be here for this. This one moment.”

Father Faulkner now seemed resolute in joining in on their misery. “I’m sorry.” He said to them. “It appears my craft is not as exemplary as I had hoped.”

They stood there in silence for some time. Father’s failure punctuated by the cries of  the baby, who felt much upset on first seeing the body of Rupert. Father hesitated to ask whether the ceremony will still go ahead, but there was no time left to mourn. They needed no reminding of the severity of their situation, just of the limitations of his own powers. Father could not shelter them for a prolonged period of time, but as he began to stutter out a sentence, a remarkable sound rang through the nave. Laughter! The baby’s laughter. They turned to him, and there he was adoring the death mask of Rupert Powell, which had taken on the peculiar contortions a face does when deep in slumber. And indeed, the mask was asleep. The eyelids fluttered, the nose twitched, the mouth sloped ajar.

“The mask lives!” Isambard exclaimed with a haughty laugh. “He’s simply asleep.”

            “There’s the Rupert I know.” Emory said, grinning from ear to ear.

            With a relieved yelp, Helen leapt to the mask, picking up the baby for him to get a closer look. And even with all the fervour, Rupert’s mask still slept. “My Rupert!” Helen sighed, overjoyed.

            “It appears,” Father said with a chuckle. “The magic has had a latent effect.”

            “Well, when will he waken?” Asked Isambard.

            “I’m sure it will do no harm to wake the mask now.” And even at this, Helen scowled at Father.

            “Call him by his name.” She said. “Call him Rupert!”

            Isambard did not waste a second, immediately turned to the mask, and bellowed “Wake up, man!”

            And as a man who had slept a perfect sleep for one-hundred years, Rupert’s mask yawned, stretched its face into many strange shapes, and slowly blinked itself awake.

            It then took on a very alarmed expression as to the supposed surprise of finding a number of people in its bedroom. It shrieked. “Oh my, and I’m naked!”

            “Naked?” Isambard laughed. “You haven’t even a body.”

            Emory stepped forward. “And this isn’t your bedroom, my friend.”

            “Don’t crowd over him,” Helen said, swatting them away. “Let me handle this.”

            Too right, thought Father Faulkner, always best to break the news gently. As we may all suspect, but never have the misfortune to experience, it can come as quite a shock to find out one is, in fact, dead.

            “Oh, my dear, my dear.” Helen caressed the mask’s face in her wifely way. “You have passed.”

            “Passed?” The mask trembled. “Passed?” Helen nodded despairingly. “Dead?” At that word, the mask jumped an inch off its pedestal in fright. They had feared it would fall and break then and there, but it deftly landed back in place. “Oh, what a tragedy.” The mask began in lament, screwing its smooth face into wrinkles. Father thought it a good grace that these things do not have tear ducts - how unseemly that would be. “I am deceased!” The mask continued in hysterics. “What a horror has befallen us that I’m taken from my wife so soon. How did it happen? Drowning? A heart attack? Murder?” The pedestal shook with the mask’s shiver.

            “My dear,” Helen whispered. “You were-”

            “Oh no!” The mask writhed, “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t tell me. I couldn’t possibly know, it’s too terrible, to know one’s own way of death.”

            “But it’s already happened.” Isambard laughed.

            “Well, that doesn’t make it any less morbid!” The mask protested. “No. No, I mustn’t know. I couldn’t bear it.” And then the mask caught a glimpse of the feet on the chaise longue and grew quite enraged. “And who is that, there? Asleep at my demise? The gall! Wake him! Wake him immediately!”

            “Alas, we cannot. For that man,” said Emory, “is you.”

            The mask then went calm. “Oh.” And a dour mood took hold of him, as though finally realising that he is actually dead. Or rather that a version of him is. And he said again, “oh.” In a very depressed tone. “Can I…” It stuttered. “Can I see.”

            “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” Helen said.

            “Nor I.” Agreed Isambard. “You may well go into shock and die all over again!”

            His wife slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be wicked.”

            “Perhaps…” Emory tentatively interjected. “Perhaps, it may be good for him.”

            “In my experience,” Father interjected, “a death mask seeing its originator’s body helps it to come to terms with the fact that it is not alive. Because these masks do not experience - from their point of view - life as a new thing of their own, which truly is what they are. But they believe they are the reanimation of their dead consciousness. This is a falsehood. A myth. The masks are indeed the essence of consciousness, but not the direct continuity. They are, as perhaps a scientist would say, a clone. A clone of consciousness, and not consciousness transplanted from human brain to mask. And there is the cognitive dissonance that could drive a mask mad, and in the past, very well has. The mask is merely a substance that is imbued with the memories, the memories of flesh as well as mind, of their originator. The last of the electrical signal flowing through the originator before it inevitably petters out…”

            “Enough!” Helen protested. “No! Enough, now! This is Rupert, and there is no more to be said about it.”

            “But, my dear.” Her sister went to her, taking Helen’s hand into hers, being, as they all knew, the only one who could perhaps encourage her to sympathise to her own detriment. “For a moment.” Mrs Isambard began. “Imagine for yourself. Imagine looking down on your body from a new vessel. That body which has carried you through life with all of its pains and triumphs. That thing which is the most essential expression of your humanity, for the very fact that it is the human body, born from the mother.

            Father was encouraged to have someone reasonable take his side, because although his academic credentials gave authority to all he said, and his years of practice gave him confidence in all his arguments, he knew only a close relation of the Powell family could appeal to the strongest authority of all on which he had no claim: the sense of the heart. And he thought the strongest conclusion to his theories, but which he dared not make, being it is one thing to be told that this body was once yours, and is now dead, but entirely another tobe told that it was never you in the first place. Rather, he resorted to pleading, “Yes, let Rupert see his body. As so to reconcile in his mind, his spirit being detached from the previous form.”

            “Yes, exactly. Now, I insist…” Said the mask. “No, I demand to see my body.” Emory looked to Helen, as if to ask, may I? And she begrudgingly nodded. Emory delicately picked up the mask.

            “Careful now.” The mask quipped. “I’m fragile goods.”

            “You can trust me.” Emory said, walking over to the chaise longue, all the while smiling.

            And the mask smiled back a comforting smile. “I know.”

            Now they were above the body of Rupert Powell, Emory tilted the mask so that it could see the whole of it and the devastation wrought upon it. The church fell silent as the mask gazed upon its originator. How sad it looked. Almost as a child peering into the open casket of its parent. And here, something miraculous did happen, for Father Faulkner had never in his days seen it. A crystal-coloured liquid formed in the corner of the mask’s eye, and as though its nose were running, it sniffed in that sad way when sorrow takes over all your facial functions, and then a tear. Father crept forward to see it. Indeed, a tear tipped over the crevice of its bottom eyelid, flowed down its face to its chin, then fell from it to land on its originator’s pallid face.

            “I remember.” It whispered remorsefully. “I remember how I died.”

            “Oh, Rupert.” Helen cried.

            “But why? Why have you brought me back? Why am I here now?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I don’t deserve to live again. I should remain dead. All of me.”

            “Now don’t say that.” said Isambard. “You’re upsetting her.” And Helen was upset. The joy of seeing her husband revived was now all gone. Her face was flushed with rosy anguish.

            “Why have you brought me back?” The mask cried.

            “Because we need you!” Helen now could not hold back her pain, and tears gushed from her eyes.

            “It’s alright.” Mrs Isambard said to Helen, going to embracing her sister.

            “I need you.” Helen went on. “I can’t do this without you, Rupert.”

            “The baptism, Rupert.” Said Isambard. “It can’t be done without you.”

            “Well then, let’s get it over with.” The mask said sullenly. “Then you can send me back to the dirt. All of me.”

            And then they were found.

            The church was struck from without by a mighty fist, and with it a great clang rang throughout the building. Everyone looked to the entrance, and to their relief, it remained intact. But then came another clang, and once again the church shook. “They’ve found us.” Mrs Isambard panicked.

            “We must finish our business before they get in.” Said the husband, and Emory ran back to place the mask upon its podium. But as if mockingly, a third thump landed on the door, and this time the force was such that the bell in the tower shook, and the bell droned in a dull and surly tone as the front doors were beaten off their hinges, breaking into pieces upon the ground, and with it, a deathly chill swept through the nave.

            The Bailiffs, for those who are unfortunate to know of their abominable existence, as this society was, are known by most throughout the Kingdom by reputation. Much is told of the wreckage made of their bodies in service of their masters, and that they are heralds of a much darker fate than would come from crossing them. Even so, they are not to be crossed. And now, there they were. Two giant figures that the frame of the doorway was too small to encase. Father’s astonishment threw him. They were a man and woman, but no man or woman of this plane. So tall. So tall. Clad in some obsidian leather - the top halves being fastened by corsets, and the bottom, loose with rigid skirts - and topped in tall, crimson velvet capirotes that rose to four coning points. Their collars coiled round their necks in some creeping fashion, as alive, covering their chins, leaving only the pallid noses and mouths that protruded from them to be discerned, of the same complexion as the corpse lain before them. Yellow toothed and black tongued and thin lipped. These things could not be disobeyed. And yet:-

            “No!” Mrs Isambard leapt up, holding out the palm of her hand as though it alone could stop them. These beasts that have torn the heavy church door to pieces and made the bells ring in distress.

            “Maroula!” Isambard was horrified. “Don’t be stupid!”

            “No!” She continued. “You are not to enter this sanctuary, you cruel things. You may not enter under here!” She was now right in-front of them, the palm of her hand still held up. But they were both unconvinced, and the female of these beastial Bailiffs stooped to step forward - and this is the one they call BailiffSinister. Isambard had ran up to hold his wife, but there was little he could do also. And now Bailiff Sinister reached into her bosom, and Father winced, thinking it meant to draw out a weapon of some sort, but no weapon emerged. Rather, a rolled-up parchment that the beast dutifully unfurled and candidly handed to Isambard. The male of her species had so far been unmoved, but now his gruesome lips - all slime and rot - parted. This was the one they call Bailiff Dexter; and with a wry and wispy voice he declared:-

“Warrant of arrest.”

            Isambard took a moment to inspect the document, and in gold letters across the top he read: Assembly of Magistery

“Mercy. Mercy, please.” Mrs Isambard cried. “Spare us a moment.” And the Bailiffs looked to one another, considering this request. “Just a moment.”

            Perhaps it was mercy, perhaps it was something more sly, but Bailiff Sinister stepped back behind the threshold all the same, allowing them the time to perform the Baptism.

            The candles surrounding the baptismal font had survived the arrival of the Bailiffs, but there was this unsettling sensation that came upon Father every now and then, being watched by those two creatures that stood just beyond the door; omens of a future fraught with danger, observing this most holy sacrament of Baptism that ushers in glad tidings.

            Helen gave her baby over to Emory who held him at the baptismal font, but not before Emory took out a shining pendant from his pocket, and laced it around the baby’s neck. It was a fish. A symbol of his house, Father assumed. It seemed a glistening silver banded with some other type of white element, perhaps a marble of some kind? He considered it the most enchanting of objects.

            As time was short Father condensed the ceremony, going on so hurriedly his words pressed and muffled together in such streams and stutters they tumbled out of him as he repeated them:

            “Is it your will that Rowan be baptised in the faith of the Catholic Church, which we have all professed with you?”

            “It is.” The mask answered, resolutely.

“Rowan, I baptise you in the name of the Father…” He said, scooping a cup of water and dousing the baby’s head. He squirmed in Emory’s arms as Father went on.

            Pouring the cup again, he continued “… and of the Son…” The water crept round, following the patterns of his thin silken hair like a gentle river. In this moment, Father felt, as he always does, a jubilation sweep in his soul and cast out any pains subject to him, as a torrent consuming flame.

            “… and of the Holy Spirit…”

            And for a fourth and final time, Father placed a scoop of water above his head, but uttered some peculiar words which could not be found in his holy book:

            … and with this water, I wash away remembrance of sins past…” He poured the water very delicately. “…that the future may be undertaken, unburdened.” And as this water poured around the baby’s head, all the parts of his eyes turned an unhappy grey, but Father caught these waters in a silver vial before they returned to the font. This treasure, he corked and handed into the care of Emory when freedoms later permitted.

            To Father Faulkner, it seemed that all the horror of this night had been worthwhile. The movement of these three families in the suspecting dark - in which only villains move; the undignified transport of Rupert Powell’s body, and entry into St Crispin’s Church on a chaise longue (of all things); the hurried affair of the Baptism of Rowan Powell - God mustn’t be hurried. And for a moment, it seemed that this small act of bringing baby Rowan into the light had washed away the heinous acts committed on this night from his head. Here, Father rationed, from this holy font, the sins of the father are extinguished. But, of course, this was not true, he could not help lamenting. Theirs was a crime that could not possibly go unanswered, one that will be felt across the Kingdom, and if it took ten generations, justice would be served.

            In his heart, Isambard knew this. And with a last grasp of his wife, he squeezed her affectionately, then softly moved away. The Bailiffs stepped forward, growing impatient.

            As Isambard motioned towards the door, his wife’s hand slipped from his, and with a final glance to them all, he turned away. With each step, his staff tapped away at the floor in dignified resignation. He was the one the Bailiffs had come for, and it was he alone that could sate their demands. Though he was not forlorn, nor sanguine, but he took on every aspect of a man who knew exactly what he needed to do. His crimson cape rustled against the chill wind that still blew from the open doorway, made evermore raspy by the presence of those two unearthly beasts that stood at the entrance. With a flourish of his chaperon, the Young Man Isambard greeted the Bailiffs with no protest or qualm, and with a knowing smile that ensured the safety of those three families - Powell, Isambard, and Fischer - Edmund Isambard gave himself wholly and completely over to them as their willing captive, to be escorted, gladly, to his doom.