Voila! The long-awaited chapel scene. It's a long chapter, so enjoy!
Fire is an incredible thing. As a whole it is menacing and fierce, crackling and sputtering and flashing in the dark, but after you stare at it long enough, it transforms. It becomes docile and delicate, soft flames licking at the earth and reaching towards the sky, like a lover in ecstasy. The sparks become stars drifting loftily in parallax. I am hypnotized by campfire as it shimmies and winks like the flirtiest of exotic dancers.
I remember the last time I saw such dancers. It was the last happy memory I am left with, the last day that Amar walked this earth.
I blink rapidly. Is it the memory that floods my eyes with tears, or the smoke?
"Are you alright, my friend?" Ithal claps a hand on my back, jarring me from my thoughts. To avoid the humiliation, I quickly decide that my tears are from the smoke in my eyes, and I cough violently for effect. The rest of the scene comes back into focus after a brief disappearance caused by the potent alcohol now making its way back around to me. The crude moonshine affects me in such a way I become like fire myself – burning, coughing, and sputtering.
I confess that in my every experience drinking, the alcohol affects me the same way. I become quiet, introspective, and rather moody. So much for calling the drinks "spirits". I've never felt less spirited.
"I'm going to get some fresh air," I croak, reaching for the lantern at my feet. I walk until the voices fade to nothing and the firelight no longer gropes at the trees, pulling itself along. With the silence and darkness it is easier to reconstruct my surroundings. I briefly consider the strength of will, and whether it will ever be enough to change things.
I am drunk. I confess that I am not completely consumed by it, but my senses are still dulled into a generalized slur. That owl over there – did I hear it first or see it first? Did it even make a noise? Is it even an owl? I rub at my eyes, pressing hard until a dull throb protests from my sockets. I see no owls now, only spots where my vision struggles to reassert itself.
A man's senses are an incredible thing. They are so finely tuned that with knowledge and experience, one can detect anything quite easily, or imagine something that is not there. I used to try that all the time; I'd concentrate my hardest to try and envision a corporeal apparition of something until my brother bade me to stop. "You're going cross-eyed," he'd say.
It is also an incredible thing that a simple foreign substance can alter a man's senses into oblivion. I shall never drink moonshine again.
If the damp chill of England is good for one thing, it is to aid one in sobering up. Detached from the hypnotic campfire and rowdy Gypsies, I already feel much better.
Across the dewy lawn, the school's chapel looms like a perched dragon, waiting to take flight. The steeple's skeletal cross is backlit by the silvery moon, a black beacon for the Lord. I've always vaguely wondered why Christians built their houses of worship in such an eerie fashion; I can hardly imagine being comforted by such a place.
And yet, for centuries such places have offered comfort to the many that seek it. What is it that Christians find there that I do not? The Rakshana discourages any sort of worship to any and all religions. To us, there is no God, no Allah, no Shiva, Parvati, Durga. We are among the most prominent Atheists, forever arguing against the existence of God.
But for what?
There are millions of people that worship a higher being, and millions of people that are rewarded for it. They have something to pray to, to live for. Whether or not their faith is in vain is not an issue. The truth is that they believe in their God, and for that they find comfort. We, the Rakshana, have no deity to pray to in times of need, but that does not mean that one does not exist. Instead, we live without hope or faith, only truth and fact.
We already know that there is an afterlife, the realms of which we protect. We know that death sends us there. There is no heaven or hell, only the realms. It does not matter if you sin or not, everyone will still end up in the same place.
I often wonder how Amar is doing, if he has fared well in the afterlife. I hope he has managed to cross over in spite of being taken by Circe's tracker. The realms we know about, and the part of them comparable to Hell. The uncertainties of the afterlife lie in what happens when one crosses over. Surely it must be paradise, or at least better than being in Hell, or in limbo for eternity. Amar is, was a good man. If anyone deserves eternal happiness, it is him.
What if we were Christians? What if I had no knowledge of what happens after death? I'd still be grieving, as I am now, but I'd have a ray of hope that I can make a difference in Amar's fate. Christians pray to their God that their loved ones will make it to heaven, but all I can do is hope for the best. And do nothing but that.
It almost makes me wish that if only for a moment, I was Christian.
It isn't until my hands grasp the brass handles of the chapel's heavy doors do I realize just what I am doing. The inside of the chapel is dark, the sort of dark that makes you certain someone is pressing a blindfold across your eyes. I recall that I still carry my lantern, but in case some pious person still remains in the vicinity, I do not light it for fear of capture. My eyes adjust in small doses; first the stained glass windows glow, then the brass crucifix catches the bit of moonlight streaming in through the rose window at the altar. It isn't much, but it is enough to see by.
I take a moment to examine the stained glass windows. Aside from the typical scenes of saints and saviors, there is one pane that illustrates a slain gorgon. How odd and undeniably pagan for an Anglican Church to have.
Truthfully, I'm unsure of my motives. I swear I can feel the eyes of the many marble saints in the niches staring at me, wondering in vain, "what is this heathen doing here?" I almost wish to reassure their pupil-less gazes that I mean no harm. I am no heathen, only a lost soul wishing for a bit of guidance.
How does one address a God he does not believe in? Hello, my name is Kartik. Yes, I know you're supposedly omniscient, but I felt the need for introductions. It's polite, you see. Yes, I know you know that. No, I'm not taking an uncivil tone with you.
I sigh. If God is omniscient, doesn't He already know all of my troubles? Or does He turn a blind eye to me because I technically don't believe in Him? But if that were the case, wouldn't He smite me for my ignorance? Either He doesn't exist, or He does and just happens to love everyone. And if He loves everyone, than why do people like Circe exist? Why would He allow such evil to kill someone so good, like my brother Amar?
My questions are no more honed than they were when I was six years old. My time in the Rakshana has not changed my desire for divine answers, it just suppressed it. There is no God. There is science and mathematics and physics. This is how the world is and why it works. End of story. The truth, cold and hard, may offer excuses, but it does not offer comfort or guidance. Faith does, but I have no faith in anything anymore.
I suppose that is my weakness. I am ungrateful, truly, to second guess the Rakshana, and I feel wretched for it. I was certain that we were all a tight-knit family, but then Amar was murdered. If anything, his death made me grow up and realize just what we are fighting for. There is no God; how could I have thought that? God is nothing but a guise to fill the gap where one has no answers. Just because I seek answers doesn't mean I need a God to tell me what is right or wrong. I am Rakshana. I already know.
Multiple sets of footsteps resound outside, followed by the giggles and shrieks of schoolgirls. I have a feeling I'm about to bear witness to something scandalous. The heavy door creaks open and I steal back into the shadows, well hidden from the intruders.
Intruders? Isn't that exactly what I am? Even more so, as I have no parents to pay the tuition for me to receive an education on eloquence and Christian charity.
"You can't very well expect me to find it in the dark," a vaguely familiar voice says. It is my priestess.
"Feel your way," says another girl's cold voice. A body stumbles into the chapel. By the light of the moon, I can see that it is Miss Doyle, dressed only in a nightgown. Suddenly, I know the cause for this late-night excursion, but I must say I'm surprised that even English schoolgirls take part in such cruel initiations.
As the girls outside swing the door back into place and bolt the door, my suspicions are confirmed. They've locked Miss Doyle in, and me as well.
For the moment, I am frozen without a clue of what to do. Miss Doyle breathes loudly and shallowly; she is afraid. I must say I cannot blame her, though I doubt the other girls dragged her out of the school by her hair. She must have had some desire for their favor, and this knowledge somehow makes me respect her less.
While we are both trapped here, alone without any witnesses, I will finally have my chance to speak with her about what she is and what she must do.
She walks cautiously up the aisle like a ragged bride about to wed the devil. I follow her, a silent shadow. I time my steps so that they match hers without offering any more noise. In my concentration, I somehow manage to choke on my own saliva. My chest heaves with the effort to hold in my cough, but it escapes my lips anyhow. Ahead of me, she freezes.
In a flash, she's running for the altar, her bare feet slapping against the marble. I run after her, not really giving proper chase. There is no need to, for she's tripped on a step and fallen. But this does not stop her; she's crawling on hands and knees and then up once more, reaching for another door. I did not take alternate exits into account. If she escapes, I may have no other chances to speak to her.
I sprint towards her, using the low bench used for prayer as a catapult to leap over her crouched form and block her exit. My hand finds her mouth and I pull her towards me.
That wretched girl bites my hand so that I drop her in surprise. I should have known better; this kitten has claws.
She leaps up and tries to run, but she's been hurt in the struggle. I use her weakness as my advantage and grab her by the ankle, bringing her down hard. She hits the ground with a slight yelp, and I feel bad for a moment. Her nightgown rides up her pale legs dangerously high as she tries to crawl away.
At least I know she's not one to give up easily. Good for her.
"Stop. Please," I say. She lays splayed on the marble floor looking like a virgin sacrifice as I light my lantern. She gazes at me for a moment; I see the spark of recognition in her wide eyes. Then she is up again, but I block the door before she reaches it.
"I'll scream. I swear I will," she says.
Her threats are empty, but they warn me all the same. If we were to be caught… I would be blamed fully, thrown in jail. But the danger shall be a suitable warning to her as well, for she would be deemed ruined. "No, you won't," I say. "How will you explain what you're doing here with me in the middle of the night without proper clothes, Miss Doyle?" She knows what I am implying – that she met me here willingly, but not with the intentions to pray. Her arms close over her body, trying unsuccessfully to hide herself from me. Lucky for her I have better things on my mind than gawking.
She steps behind the altar. "Who are you?"
"You don't need to know who I am," I say, ridiculously deciding that now is the time for secrecy. Oh well, the less she knows, the better.
"You know my name. Why can't I know yours?"
I suppose telling her my name can't do much harm. It's not as if knowing my name will reveal all of my secrets. "Kartik."
"Kartik. Is that your real name?"
I know she's suspicious, afraid of me even, and I somehow find it comical. Anyone who really knows me knows that I am not intimidating in the least. But she doesn't know me, and she's afraid. "I've given you a name. That's enough." My indirect lie surprises me. I'm discovering a new persona and I'd like to explore it a bit.
"What do you want?" Her green eyes may be frightened, but there is a strength in them that I admire.
"Just to talk to you."
"You've been following me. At the train station today. And earlier at vespers." Her statement is more of a question, as if she's trying to reassure herself that she hasn't been seeing things.
I could lie. I could make her doubt herself, think herself mad, but even this new facet of my personality finds that to be cruel. I nod. "I stowed away on the Mary Elizabeth in Bombay. Rough passage," I say, recalling my vertigo. "I know the English are terribly sentimental about the sea, but I can live without it." If I had hoped to lighten the mood, I have failed.
"Why? Why come all this way?" Her brows furrow as she cocks her head slightly. The lantern's light catches the edges of her hair and for a moment I'm struck with the similarities to this evening's campfire. "As I told you, I need to talk to you." I can't tear my eyes from her hair. I step forward involuntarily, but she shrinks away. I fear she will try and escape again, so I must be quick to catch her attention. "It's about that day and your mother."
"What do you know about my mother?" Her voice is shrill and it startles a bird in the rafters. From the look in her eyes I can tell that she knows something is amiss about her mother's death.
"I know that she didn't die of cholera, for one thing," I say softly.
It is brief, but I catch it. A moment of hesitation. "If you're hoping to blackmail my family…"
"Nothing of the sort," I say, stepping forward.
She backs up again and realizes she is trapped against the altar. "Go on," she says shakily. She is just as weak as she was that day. Weak when she ran away, weak when her immaturity killed her mother and my brother.
"You saw it happen, didn't you?"
"No," she lies feebly.
"You're lying."
"N-no…I…"
Obviously sublety does not get through her dense skull. In a swift motion, I leap onto the altar and crouch before her. I hold the lantern close so that she can see that I am not playing games. "For the last time, what did you see?" I demand.
Her eyes reveal all. They widen in terror and uncertainty, reflecting the lantern light and my own figure, rendered black in shadow. It nearly frightens me to see myself this way, an evil creature in her luminous eyes. Perhaps I am the devil to wed this ragged bride.
"I…I saw her killed. I saw them both killed."
I grit my teeth at the mention of Amar. "Go on."
She recalls the vision with great difficulty. It must be hard to have the images of your mother's murder floating around in your head. "I…I tried to call out to her, but she couldn't hear me. And then…" She trails off.
"What?" I prompt insensitively.
"I don't know." She closes her eyes briefly. "It was as if the shadows started to move…I've never seen anything like it…some hideous creature." Something in her face softens and I realize she's been holding this in all along.
"Your mother took her own life, didn't she?"
"Yes," she whispers.
"She was lucky," I say without thinking how it might sound. Extremely stupid.
Her green eyes harden. "How dare you -,"
I seek to right my rash words. "Trust me, she was lucky not to be taken by that thing. As for my brother, he was not so fortunate." Not fortunate at all.
"What is it?" she asks.
"Nothing you can fight."
"I saw it again. On the carriage ride here. I had another…vision."
My stomach drops in the same fashion it does when you dive off a tall cliff into a deep pool of water. This means my extra sense was correct. She did have a vision, which means that the realms are not done with Miss Doyle just yet. If anyone finds out…
I climb off the altar and push in front of her. "Listen to me well, Miss Doyle. You are not to speak about what you've seen to anyone. Do you understand?"
"Why not?"
"Because it will put you in danger." No need to indulge her in knowing that an ancient society of women will be knocking down her door for information if they find out.
"What was that thing I saw?"
I do not know exactly what it is, so I relay the information given to me by the Rakshana. "It was a warning. And if you don't want other, terrible things to happen, you will not bring on any more visions," I recite verbatim. I frown. That last part sounded odd to me…
She seems to think so too. She laughs bitterly, twisting her face into a sneer. "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that? It's not as if I asked for it in the first place."
She's right, but there's no way I'll tell her that. "Close your mind to them and they'll stop soon enough." Another answer thanks to the Rakshana.
"And if I can't?" she asks petulantly.
I've had it with her attitude and I am out of answers. I do something I'd never have done before Amar died – I result to physical force. I grab her wrist and squeeze hard so that her eyes widen in pain. "You will," I say with finality. And with that, so easily, she falls silent. I smile with my success at dominating her, then let her go. "We will be watching you, Miss Doyle," I say.
I am saved by more questions by the drunken singing of the Reverend. The moment Miss Doyle turns around, I make my exit. Through the adrenaline pumping through my veins I can discern one nagging thought. I do not like how I handled the situation, and I fear it will someday be returned to me in some unpleasant way. After all, it's bad to toy with fire, and fiery is what she is.
Aww uncertain Kartik! He's just searching for something to believe in!
Once again, I ask for as much concrit as you can offer. Thank you all so much for your reviews so far. Please let me know if you think I'm doing Kartik justice.
Thanks in advance,
LunaEquus
Please review! Because you know what sucks? Seeing that many people read and only about one out of 20 actually review. Please don't make this author think she's losing her edge. Because then she doesn't feel like updating.