A nice long chapter. I decided this thing was getting way too long, so I'm cramming. I like this one because Van Helsing gets to monologue, which he hardly ever does— he leaves it to Carl, y'know.
Simon let Tamerlaine go for the reason given— he still loves her. This becomes rather important near the end. And we're getting pretty darn near the end, I must say. (sigh) Finally!
I did see "LXG" once but was pretty much comatose for the entire thing. The "complicated" line was my own. Thanks to everyone who keeps complimenting me on my writing style (shrugs, very embarrassed) I ought to be better, I've been doing this my whole life. Wasn't until I was thirteen or so that I finally developed my own style, and I've written eight or nine books since then (not to bore you or anything, of course :)
Incidentally, I'm searching for the perfect song to provide background music for Carl and Tamerlaine's disjointed romance. Any suggestions? I listen to everything from U2 to Flogging Molly when I type, so I could be searching for a while...
And, in order to forestall any questions, no I have not been watching "Star Wars" recently. Hope that didn't give anything away! :)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Want
Lead me on the paths I ought to walk
Speak for me when I cannot talk
Taking Tamerlaine by the hand, Van Helsing led her into the dining room, where Carl sat with his head on his arms. He looked up as they entered.
"I'm sorry, Tamerlaine, I—"
She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Sorry for being my defender? Stop apologizing, Carl."
Van Helsing contrasted the freeness of physical touch she had with Carl, with the stiffness she felt with him. Of course, she'd only just met him. Still—
He directed her attention to the book, which lay open on the table.
Tamerlaine tipped her head to one side and looked at it. "What is it?"
"A scrapbook," answered Carl. "I'd forgotten about it. Where did you find it, Van Helsing?"
"In your room," the monster hunter answered.
"In my room? You went in my room?" Carl started indignantly. Van Helsing held up a hand.
"Carl, this is really not the time."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Carl, stop apologizing for everything," said Van Helsing and Tamerlaine simultaneously.
"Sorr— bugger." Carl shut up. Tamerlaine pulled the scrapbook toward her and, with a malicious smile, sat in Carl's lap. The smallish friar gave a slight grunt and she stared at him with wide, startled eyes.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Hampton?"
"Yes, you're squashing my—"
"You used to sit on me when I was a child. I didn't enjoy it. And trust me, it hurt much more than this."
"Incidentally," said Van Helsing, his eyes lighting up. He chuckled and had to stop and clear his throat before starting again. "Incidentally, Carl, I've been meaning to have a discussion with you about a certain— problem, you had as a child—"
"Can we please concentrate on the matters in hand?" said Carl immediately.
"Please do," said Van Helsing politely. "Don't let my presence inhibit you in any way."
Carl glared at him and unwrapped his arms from about Tamerlaine's waist. Responding to the hint, she stood, still staring at the scrapbook with intrigued eyes.
"You said you would prove to me that I didn't kill my parents."
"Yes. Young Carl cut out all the newspaper articles that had to do with the strange case of your parent's demises— demisi— demis— what is the plural of that? Anyway. Your father died of being strangled, and your mother a year after in a freak accident. A fire was started, the building was structurally unsound, it caved in on her. Very little was said about your father's death until after your mother died as well. Then, the wheels started turning, channels were gone through, and eventually you, a harmless child of six, were arrested. Supernatural aid, the paper says, was the explanation of how a tiny girl killed a grown man— the case was wreathed in sensation and drama. Thus, you were hauled off to the asylum."
Carl, watching Tamerlaine's face, veiled by her wheat-coloured hair, broke in and said, "Yes, we know all this, Van Helsing. Get to the point."
"The point," said Van Helsing, "the point is— the point is this, quite simply. Suspicion wasn't placed on Tamerlaine until—" He tapped one of the articles. "Until suspectful eyes were directed towards Tamerlaine's uncle, Edward Gentle. He was a natural suspect, as he inherited the entire estate. Then, quickly, someone acted to divert it towards young Tamerlaine. Her obviously disturbed state, easily explained by the traumatic deaths of her parents, didn't help. A few subliminal messages from the same someone— children are particularly susceptible to hints from adults— the partially-manufactured threat to Tam's sister— and voila. Young Girl Committed To Insane Asylum— Suspected Connection to Death of Her Parents." Van Helsing's blunt index finger tapped idly at the heading of another article. Overcome with the exhilaration of delivering all this to its logical end, he grinned broadly at Carl, who returned his joviality.
"Brilliant, Van Helsing! Congratulations on your first cognitive victory!"
"What—" Van Helsing's smile turned to a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"So it's all solved," said Carl jubilantly, jumping up and down slightly. "No more fretting, dear heart. All we have to do is find your uncle, overpower him before the weapon goes off, turn him over to the police, apprehend Simon, clear your name, collect the inheritance, get you a divorce on the sly, smuggle you into the Vatican dressed as a nun, and there you have it! Peace and happiness for all involved! Except your uncle, of course," he amended. "And, er, not Simon."
Van Helsing watched Tamerlaine— her amber eyes were still veiled by long lashes, and he mouth was doubtful.
"Is something wrong?"
She looked up at him. "Do you really— you really think this can be true?"
"Of course. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."
She sighed. "No, I suppose not."
"Look, its all that makes sense. I mean, come on— supernatural involvement?"
"You don't think—" she said questioningly.
Do you, Van Helsing?
No.
"No," he said firmly, "I don't." Tamerlaine still looked supremely unsure. "Do you want to believe it?"
"Oh yes," she whispered, "I want to believe."
"Well, then—"
Carl stopped doing whatever Irish jig he'd been demonstrating and latched on to the fact that more serious discussion. "What is it, Tamerlaine?"
"My life—" she said, staring into space, "has been spent in penitence for a wrong-doing I thought I had perpetuated. Everything I've ever known has been tainted by this belief that I'm undeserving, a bad person, for doing something I couldn't remember. I spent my life in a prison—" She cried out helplessly, banged her fist on the table and clenched her teeth. "And now you tell me there's a possibility that I was misled, misinformed, mistreated. And I don't know if it would be a tragedy to find that someone has shaped my life this way— or a tragedy only to find that all thirty-six years have been one long bloody waste of time." She inhaled a shuddery breath and went on, slightly more calmly. "It is not promising that both options are tragedies. And— all I know is I'm done with half-truths, done with lies. I want to know the truth. The real!" She turned beseeching eyes on Van Helsing. "Tell me how."
Van Helsing clasped her hand. "Help us find your uncle," he said quietly, "and make him yield truth, as a prize."
Some time later, they were still seated around the table, in various stages of enervation.
"I've never been this confused in my entire life," said Carl exhaustedly, rubbing at his eyes.
"I have," said Van Helsing and Tamerlaine at the same time. Their gaze met and they shared a rueful smile. Tamerlaine was turning over the pages of Carl's scrapbook.
"Isn't it awful," she marveled, "how all three people in this room had miserable childhoods."
"Terrible," agreed Carl, and Van Helsing grunted assent.
Tamerlaine then shook her head and said to Van Helsing, "Of course, you may not have— do you mind me calling you Gabriel? I don't like using last names as firsts, like Carl seems to."
"What do you mean, I may not have?" said Van Helsing. "You may call me whatever you wish."
"Thank you. Well, all I hear is that your memories are disjointed, few and far between— you can't recall if you have a family, for instance—"
"Yes. What of it?"
"Well, I only thought, perhaps you had a good childhood." She shrugged, a slight movement of her thin shoulders. "How would you know?"
"I—" said Van Helsing, and stopped. "I never thought of that before."
"Hmm," said Tamerlaine, moderately cheerfully, and shrugged again.
"But I've spent so long fighting my own demons— far too long— its hard to imagine."
Tamerlaine fixed a look of sympathy on him. "I too have many demons, Mr. Van— Gabriel. Yet the greatest friendship I've ever had is still with me today, to be the light to my dark. Even after thirty years of absence."
"Sorry," said Carl, looking up, "but are you talking about me?"
She turned a fond smile on him. "Of course I'm talking about you, idiot." Then her eyes returned to Van Helsing. "Don't give up, Gabriel," she said softly. "You never know who may be waiting out there— waiting to come back into your life."
Van Helsing nodded shortly and said, "Actually I'd prefer it if you call me Van Helsing, as Carl does." He gave her a crooked smile. "It always seems to be my enemies who go immediately to first name terms."
She tightened her lips and nodded, and looked down again at the scrapbook. The skeleton of the leaf was on the next page she turned— her fingertip with bitten-down nails hovered over it, not quite touching.
"Carl—" she said slowly. Carl looked up at her. "Is this what I think it is?"
"Yes, I believe so." They shared a smile and Van Helsing felt left out. He hadn't felt like that in a long time but there was no other term for it but— left out. He wondered if Carl had felt like this, watching he and Anna .
No, because he had that barmaid, remember?
"That was a great tree," said Tamerlaine, wistfully, turning the page.
"I still dream about it," said Carl. "Remember carving our names in it? Remember that peculiar plant that grew around it? Remember when we— what is it?"
Tamerlaine's face had gone ashen grey as she stared at a photo. "My uncle," she said.
"What?" The two men bent over the page.
"I thought that was your father," said Van Helsing.
"My," said Carl, fascinated, "I do look rather heavy there, don't I?" Van Helsing nudged him. "Sorry."
"No, its not my father. Father died long before this picture was taken. No, that's Uncle Edward." Tamerlaine trembled violently and wrapped her arms around herself, looking down fixedly at the cold, handsome face in the photo. "I didn't know I'd have this reaction to— its just a photograph after all."
"Are you sure its not your father?" Van Helsing demanded.
"Of course I'm sure— why? What are you thinking?"
"Look," he said, pointing first to young Tamerlaine's face in the photo, then to her uncle's. "Such a striking resemblance."
"Well, that's not peculiar in itself," she said. "We are related, after all."
"You said your father and uncle were only half-brothers," said Van Helsing slowly. "What are the odds of such a strong resemblance in blood already so diffused?"
Tamerlaine stopped trembling and sat utterly still. "What do you mean?" she demanded coldly, her eyes wide and horrified.
"I mean Edward Gentle is not your uncle." Van Helsing took a deep breath. "He's your father."