Chapter Two--Crispin

Crispin is a sociopath fleeing the scene of a murder in 1890's Victorian England. A con artist, he became enraged when confronted by a Mrs. Croft due to his failure to contact her dead cat. He is on a ship bound to New York from London. While on the sh

In Egyptian mythology the trial of the soul after death is associated with the passage of the sun through the underworld. The whipping of a spinning top, representing Alleluia on the Saturday before Septuagesima…J. Sharkey .The Cosmic Eggs

 

CRISPIN

ATLANTIC OCEAN--LONDON TO NEW YORK

AUG, 1894—OCT, 1895

1

Crispin Baker blew smoke rings as he stood on the ship’s deck.  He savored his smoke, enjoying the mild breeze as it carried the ghostly wisps into the dark.  An expensive cigar he thought, as he rolled it between his fingers. The deck leaned gently as the wind picked up.  He prided himself on his good taste, an achievement, considering his upbringing.  Dear Aunt Meg did all right, he allowed.  It wasn’t easy—he wasn’t easy.  He stood between stacks of deck chairs, secured lest they slide, toppling into the Atlantic Ocean.  Fond memories… Aunt’s sewing basket, the hidden pearls, so beautiful he cried when he discovered them, tucked into the lining.  Naughty girl.  A shame, really—her death…

A light glowed to guide him back inside.  He looked up.  The wisps had disappeared. Millions of stars--- specks of white paint spattered the black sky.   He wondered if Aunt Meg was somewhere in those stars.   He knew she’d be vexed with him, but after all, what else could he have done?  The chairs began to rattle as the sea stirred the waves.  He steadied himself.  A bottle tumbled down the deck.  He frowned at it, disapproving.  Someone was careless.

Faint laughter drifted from the upper deck.  He gritted his teeth, biting down on the precious cigar.  Buggers, he sneered.  Examining the wounded cigar, he wrapped it in paper and tucked it away.   Plenty more to be had. The Elite of New York Society beckoned.

Professor Theosopho, at your service—ready to contact your dear ones on the other side.   A woman’s voice, not far…in second class, maybe…He wondered what the women would be like--better than Mrs. Rita Croft, no doubt.  “Love letters”, she said, “Find them and I’ll believe you.” He still winced at how she found him out.  Incredible--someone sending that old cow anything but a bill for services rendered. “If it’s really my lovely Biscuit, he’ll show you where I hid my letters, dear.” Her double chin wobbled when she said “dear”.

He had charmed her.  Crispin counted on his good looks.  Handsome as a youth, with dark brown hair and the gray eyes of his Irish mother, he had retained the slender build of his East End father. He was the first to admit that he was no longer a lad, but he still caused many a heart to flutter, and legs to open. A man of fifty was a man in his prime.  His silver hair gave him an air of distinction and nobility.  He was careful to dress the part.

Who hadn’t a few pints in his life?  If only she hadn’t threatened.  The baggage would still be drinking her tea and mooning over the bloody cat.  He’d fooled half of London.  There were invitations.  She insisted.  “I paid you, now communicate with Mr. Biscuit, damn you!”  To be undone by a dead cat…

The bottle rolled against his foot as the ship swayed. He picked it up.  Still a bit of whiskey!  Ha!  He drained the remaining drops, spilling them on his tongue, and shook the bottle.  All gone, he lamented, bitter at his fate.  He held the bottle in the palm of his hand and stepped out from the shelter of the chairs.  How far could he throw it?  Would he hear the splash?  Unlikely--the water was stirring up, glints of light on the waves.

Crispin made his way to the rail. Bottle in hand, he staggered as the deck pitched down, sending him careening to the rail’s edge. Oh dear, careful, mustn’t fall. Like Aunt and Rita. “Ta, Aunt.” Down she went to the street below.  Poor dear, never suspected. Why should she?  He was only seventeen.  Rita, on the other hand….far messier—all that muck, brains and such.  They saw him as he looked down—the old women in the street.   Their feeble voices rose to a thin scream. 

They were old, those women—couldn’t make out their wrinkled faces in a looking glass, much less his, three stories up.  He held the bottle in his palm and raised his arm.

 A voice interrupted him. “I seen you.  Can you do it? Can you reach them?”

Crispin whirled around. The ship groaned as it rocked.   He held the whiskey bottle by its neck, steadying himself, clutching the rail. A small figure was crouched between the stacks of chairs. 

“Who’s there? Show yourself.”

 The figure stood up and braced against the chairs, arms wrapped around a restraining rope.  Crispin moved closer.  One so small would be easy to manage. It was a boy of six or so.  Hard to see, the child’s face was in shadow.  The boy stepped forward—his blond hair caught in the weak light.

 “I want to reach him.  I want to reach them all.  There are rewards for you if you help me.”

Rewards?  Crispin snickered.  A brat’s game, was it? He’d see who the brat belonged to. If there was money, so much the better.  He wondered how loud a splash a brat might make--

much louder than a bottle, he was sure.  He took a closer look.  The boy’s shabby clothes left no doubt. An orphan—most probably, a stowaway.  He inched toward the child. The thought made him feel powerful. Maybe now…

“Dear lad,” he whispered, “whatever are you going on about?” His arms left his sides, ready to snatch. 

The child stepped into the light.  He could see him now.  Curious, the eyes…their color looked almost yellow.  Perhaps it was the light.  One would think them hazel, then a sort of green with flecks of gold… His feet felt cold. Odd, it was creeping up, growing stronger.  Why was the brat staring?  Ice—his arms frozen, his body was a block of ice.  The bottle was part of him.  Knock him hard, and he would smash into a million bits—slivers and shards. His heart slowed, the blood hesitating.

“What were you thinking?”  The childish voice hissed.

The boy cocked his head, peering at the frozen man.   He was an insect in a jar--helpless.  The orphan gave a smile.  It was full of spite.  “I want to go to sleep now.” An order issued to a servant.  Crispin blinked.  Warmth ran down his leg--he had wet himself.

Baker’s life was his no longer.  “Bernie” belonged to no one.   ‘The Professor” found himself sleeping on the cabin floor while Bernie (his “little son” he told the others—raising his finger to his lips lest the ship’s staff discover the stowaway) rested in the upper berth after eating his fill of the food Crispin brought him.  Caught--as if he were a fly in a web, and Bernie, a nasty spider.

The day before the ship sailed into New York’s Harbor, Bernie sat on a deck chair eating ice cream. “I want hokey-pokey”, he’d demanded, seeing the frozen treat.  The sun warmed them.  Passengers lined the rails, shielding their eyes as they searched the horizon.  Bernie licked the melting confection as it trickled. 

“Precious! Precious!” A woman in her sixties pushed through the crowd. Crispin admired her elegant gray coat, made of the finest wool—its rows of ivory buttons attesting to her good taste and large fortune. Shifting from a high-pitched cry to a mournful choking moan, she sang out  “Preeecc-iousss….Preeecc…ious!” Cupping her hand to her ear, she called, hoping to hear the yap of her lost Pomeranian. He sat on the edge of the deck chair, observing her while he avoided any unhappy drops of the boy’s treat falling on his expensive striped trousers.

The woman drew a handkerchief from her knitted purse and began to dab her eyes.  She hesitated, standing at the rail, looking through the crowd for signs of her lost Precious. He arranged a look of careful concern on his face as he studied her. Has she given up hope? Not yet, he decided. The woman, a widow named Mrs. Palmer, had condescended to personally search in third class for her missing dog.  Stewards had dutifully knocked on doors the night before, asking if anyone had seen the missing Precious. A reward was offered…Pity he hadn’t considered that; he might have simply hidden the animal, playing the hero by restoring the beloved Precious to his mistress, and collecting the reward. 

Two mornings previous, while strolling on the first class deck, he had seen her preening, basking in the oohs and ahs that greeted her and her little companion on their early walks. Mrs. Palmer, with her abundant chins and airs, so like the hideous Rita, had clouded his thinking. The pleasure of pinching the little wretch from under her Ladyship’s nose was irresistible. He smiled, recalling the beast’s rapid little heart as he tossed it into the Atlantic.  Say hello to Mr. Biscuit, will you luv?  Mustn’t dwell…more important issues to consider. Bernie…how best to kill Bernie?  Throw the little b*****d overboard, or wait until he slept and smother him with a pillow. He would leave the body hidden on the ship when he disembarked… Bernie’s sticky fingers grasped the arm of Crispin’s chair.  Pulling himself closer to Crispin’s face, he whispered in his ear, “You stupid Crispin!” 

An image filled his head---her ladyship’s purse opening—she hands him a hundred—no two hundred—five hundred pounds…her eyes swimming with gratitude as he hands her the shivering dog.  Glad to help, he says—and by the way luv, introduce me to your posh friends…Of course you brave man, she sobs as she hugs the pathetic Precious…  He really should consider the reward—go and find the dog—think of the reward…you’ll be a hero…He was almost to his feet when he began to fight the urge to find Precious. He wanted to rush to the rail and jump into the ocean--down into the cold water—calling for the lost Pomeranian as he swam about.  Panicked, he looked around—someone will stop me, he hoped.  I’ll be rescued, surely.  He fought to stop his legs as slowly, he rose to his feet.

“I can make it so that no one helps you. I can make it so that no one even sees you drop!”  Bernie smiled as he licked his fingers.  Crispin fell into the safety of his folding chair as the heartbroken Mrs. Palmer made her way back to first class.

 

 

 

 

 

2

NEW YORK

AUG. 1894

Mr. O’Brien was singing as the baby continued to wail.  It had been an hour, when eight-year-old Charlie ran in with the bottle.  “Bless ya, boyo,” said the relieved Mr. O’Brien.  He sat at the small kitchen table, holding the six-month infant, jiggling him on his knee, to no avail.  After taking a swig of the cheap whiskey, the burly man funneled a small amount into the baby’s mouth. Soon, blessedly, there was quiet.  Sitting near a large pile of laundry abandoned when the landlady left to do errands and engage in rounds of gossip, Crispin knew soon, he would go mad.

Bernie was at a window, staring down at the courtyard.  The boy seemed indifferent to the baby’s piercing cry.  Shunned by the other children, Bernie showed no desire for their company.  Other than an occasional demand, the boy rarely spoke, spending most of the two weeks they had been “guests”, standing at the kitchen window. Crispin would hear him whispering at night—speaking to…better not to know.  Sometimes there would be a giggle.  Crispin always covered his ears.

The tiny closet and pile of rags that constituted the “guest room” in the O’Brien flat cost three dollars a week.  Crispin was used to slums—dirty, crowded, and filled with the smell of unwashed bodies, refuse and the constant cries of babes.  The New York Irish slum—its floors of crowded rooms, with the small courtyard and fetid air, was no worse than what he knew.  What made it unbearable was the August heat.  Sleep was impossible.

He must get back.  Take his chances—go back to London.   Hopeless.  His best shirt clung to his body.  He reeked of body odor and O’Brien’s whiskey.

He’d used the same plan--not too grand to start.  Work your way to the estates.  Select the well-to-do.  Those moving up--the ambitious.   “Professor Theosopho--my card,” he said.  “An urgent message” for the “lady of the house”.  He’d done his homework, eaves-dropping in the shops, chatting with the nannies--bits of useful gossip.  He always dealt with women.  The servant took his card and shut the door.  Rude of him.  How was his mistress to know?  Something was spinning away.  His charm—his ability to persuade, where was it?  There was Bernie.  It would never be the same as long as there was Bernie.  Hopeless.

 Last night—he waited.  The boy was sleeping—Crispin had studied him, making sure.  He moved past the snoring family, opening the door, careful of the creak.  Shoes in hand, he made his way down the cluttered stairs and into the street. Taking a deep breath, he began to run, stopping to put on his shoes several blocks from the tenement.   He ran laughing, freedom in his lungs.  Oh, the glory!  I beat the little b*****d—whispered with every stride.  

He saw the pub. Perfect!  Must celebrate--mark the occasion.  Plans began to spring up.  He’d go to Boston or Philadelphia—money—lots of it there. He’d relieve a few citizens of their purses. Dead or alive—he didn’t care.  Better dead maybe—someone had to pay—pay for what he’d been through—what was done to him by that hideous boy—that creature.

Must have new clothes—dress the part. He spent what was left—no need for rent—he wouldn’t be returning to the O’Brien hell. The dark pub smelled of whiskey and cigars. Soothed by familiar surroundings, he remembered that last cigar on the ship.  There will be more, he promised himself.  His image in the bar’s mirror, made him weep.  Thank God, he escaped. Drinking the last of his rent, he considered the patrons. Was there any money there?  A couple of ancient blokes in the corner… Those standing-- laborers-- too large, too strong to risk, especially in his weakened state.  He saw that the older men had not ordered in an hour—no money.

Best to investigate another place-- area—with more prosperous drinkers-- maybe a woman.  He’d left the pub whistling—ready to begin his new life, when he saw the knife.  It lay in the gutter near a small wagon.  Not very large—from a butcher shop, he guessed.  He needed a weapon.  He wondered how sharp it was.  A sharp knife was always useful.  He picked it up and scraped his thumb along the edge. Sharp enough to kill quickly? A thought—he should test it. The urge to cut came unexpected and before he could help himself, the knife etched a shallow path on his throat.  No, he thought, not enough, he should slice his own throat—cut through the artery, and if possible—go right to the bone.  Then he would know for sure.  His heart beat in his ears—the pulsing blood waiting to gush out in a stream—his life moving with it. His hand shook as he fought the urge to cut.

“Leave me and you’ll finish it.” The voice came from the shadow of the wagon.  The wagon sat under a street lamp.  Crispin focused on the shadow, not daring to think.  He’d be dead if he thought too much. Part of the shadow moved.  Bernie. The boy crawled from the shadow and stood, folding his arms.  Crispin was glad he couldn’t see those eyes as he held the knife, his thumb against the bleeding skin.  “Please, lad…anything…just don’t make me…” Crispin was weeping, the blood trickling from the wound.   So far…I’d gone so far…surely I’d lost him.  He’d left the pub, certain he was free.  How did the monster know? 

More careful now.  Mustn’t ever assume.  He knew better than to leave him behind--now.  The baby was quiet.  Thank God for that.   I must go back.  How can I?

An insistent voice interrupted his thought. “Seamus, did the housing inspector call? Did ya remember ta tell him about the rot under the window?”   The lady of the house was home.

Mrs. O’Brien’s bark was worse than the baby’s bawling.   Waking from his slumber, Seamus slapped the table.  To his horror (and Crispin’s), the whiskey bottle wobbled and began to fall. Four–year-old Kathleen ran across the room and caught the bottle, saving its contents. “Tank you, me lovely Kathleen!” Seamus’s relief at the rescue restored his good mood.   “E’thall right Da”, the little girl lisped as she skipped her rope out to play. The baby whimpered.  His father dripped more whiskey into the tiny smacking lips. Between drips, the infant babbled da-da-da, flexing his fingers through the mat of hair on his father’s arm. 

“Don’t make a drunk out of me child, ya villain!”  Mrs. O’Brien’s pregnant state made her particularly irritable.  The sound of clomping feet and high-pitched yells intruded as several small boys tumbled through the open door. “Out! All o ya.”   They laughed as they evaded her blows, dodging and arching their backs.  Crispin saw Charlie swipe the jar of pennies sitting on the counter.  He suppressed the urge to inform her of the theft.  He had planned to take the pennies.  Perhaps he could acquire them more easily from the boys.  “Savages”, she screamed as they all ran out.  She slammed the door.  The baby stirred, but quickly settled down, joining his father in a drunken nap.

Muttering a litany of curses, Mrs. O’Brien continued the laundry.  Crispin wondered if he could get her to wash his shirt and then thought better of it. She would ask about the rent—better not draw attention.

“I want the wood,” a voice said. Crispin turned toward the window.  Bernie was looking at him, his frail body posed in a determined stance.

 Bent over a washtub, the landlady was scrubbing the stains from a shirt.  She glared at her husband who was snoring--the baby nestled in his beefy arm.  Crispin felt a panic.  What ever “the wood” was, Crispin knew he’d better find it.  He looked at the woman.  Did she feel it-- that terrifying chill? The boy radiated threat. Slapping the scrubbing board, she continued a diatribe on her husband’s faults.  Odd, that she isn’t afraid of the brat. Crispin had seen that Bernie inspired fear in most people—adults and children.  Mrs. O’Brien seemed immune.  

“The wood, dear boy?  What kind of wood?” Crispin asked timidly.  “Trees, stupid Crispin, I want trees.”  Bernie turned back toward the window.  “Of course, lad, whatever you say--right away then.”  Crispin heaved a sigh.  They were leaving to find trees.  What trees, he wondered.   Knowing the futility of asking “why”, Crispin gathered the little that remained of his possessions.

 A few minutes later, he was ready.  Bernie sat on the pile of rags, waiting. “We must be quiet,” Crispin whispered. He peered through the curtain of their room and watched for the right moment.  “Now, stupid Crispin, we leave now!”  Bernie shouted.  The boy shot Crispin a look of lethal impatience.  Her head whipping around, Mrs. O’Brien saw the suitcase in Crispin’s hand.  “Oh, God, Bernie,” Crispin said, “we’re in for it!”

Taking a deep breath, she released a bellow and rushed to block their way, tossing a pair of sudsy bloomers in their path.  “Thief! Help! It’s thieves!” At the table, Seamus’s drunken growl urged, “Fer God’s sakes, woman-- let the pair of ‘em go. I want ta sleep!” 

The baby began to wail.  Mrs. O’Brien picked up the nearly empty washtub and threw it at them, splashing water, but missing her target.   She searched for a more accurate weapon. The whiskey bottle hurtled across the room.  It barely missed Crispin, but the remaining spirits cascaded down the door frame.  “Bernie!” he shouted, “The woman’s mad! Run!”  Flinging the door open, Crispin hurried down the stairs.  Bernie followed. 

The whiskey gone, Crispin heard Seamus give a distraught cry.  His wife continued, “The rent! Ya b*****d! The rent!”   Her spouse’s roar silenced Mrs. O’Brien. The sounds of slaps and thumps trailed down the dark passage.

They fled through the courtyard-- the simmering stench of the nearby stables greeting them.   Bernie stopped and pointed to a group of ragged children playing within the enclosure. “I want that.” Crispin strained to see the object of Bernie’s gaze. “Of, course, dear boy---what is it that you want?” “Spinning,” Bernie ordered.  Relieved, Crispin grabbed the wooden top that was the center of the game.   No one followed them as they made their way to the street and began their journey out of New York City.

 

3

CONNECTICUT

Sept-Oct 1894

There were eyes.  Mrs. O’Brien was perched on the kitchen table.  “The rent—where’s the rent,” she squawked. She was talking to Bernie.  Crispin wondered if she was going to eat Bernie.  He hoped so. Bernie was skipping rope. The eyes floated around her head, like a halo. He saw them turn into red flames.  Smoke was coming through the floor--shapes forming. Was he dead? Was this hell? “You’ll go down, if you’re not careful,” Aunt said.  Maybe she was right.  He heard laughing-- Bernie.  Mrs. O’Brien became a black bird, and was flying…

            “More. They say for you to make some more.”  Crispin opened his eyes.  Above him, the sky looked down between the wood planks of the bridge. How long had he napped?  He sat up on his elbows and judged by the bridge’s shadow. Two hours.  His stomach ached.  It had been more than a day since their last meal—the old man’s coffee and corn bread.  Small insects were swarming an inch above his face, landing on him to take an occasional bite.  The shade of the bridge gave relief from the hellish heat, but there was no refuge from the tiny pests.  Bernie was standing, waiting for him to answer.  Crispin considered suicide.

“More, Bernie?”  His body ached from their weeks of travel.  “The “Professor” had become a vagrant traveling the roads and wooded paths of Connecticut’s countryside, stealing what he could--too dispirited to do more than survive. Bernie trudged silently behind.   The strain of the boy’s control weighed heavily.  “More what, might I ask?”  Crispin was close to tears.  “Spinning” said Bernie.   He gestured to a sack lying at his feet.  Crispin recognized it as the old man’s. 

They’d seen smoke the previous morning, before the heat made walking such a torment.  The smell of coffee grew stronger as they traced its source. A half a mile from the road, they found it.  Crouched over his breakfast, an old man in dirty overalls was humming as he stoked a small fire-- the coffee ready for a battered tin cup. The cup sat by a burlap sack nestled on the ground. Sitting next to the cup, was a pan filled with fresh corn bread. The old man was alone.   

 Anyone else about?  Crispin scanned the area and waited for a moment.  Reaching for the pan of cornbread, the old man’s back turned.  Crispin struck him with a brick, splitting his skull.  He dodged the spray of blood, which splattered away from him and, more importantly, away from the cornbread.

With the body hidden under some branches and after sharing the cornbread with Bernie, Crispin investigated the sack.  A few pieces of wood—nothing of value.  He left it behind, the wood spilling out on the ground.  When did Bernie pick it up?  What did he mean—“more”? More what?  What had the sack to do with “more”?  Bernie stood waiting.  Reluctantly, Crispin emptied it.  Under all the wood were some excellent knives, suitable for carving, a leather strap for sharpening, cloths meant to smooth and polish.  He saw that the pieces of wood were of varying types and sizes.  Bernie pointed to the wooden top in his hand. “More.”

Crispin’s wariness blossomed into terror. His voice shaking, he said, “Of course, anything m’lad, but I’ve no experience making such things.”  “More”, Bernie whispered gently as one would talk to a small child. Taking a knife, Crispin selected a piece of wood and--hands trembling began to work—carefully shaving it.

He worked through the rest of the day and into the night.  Bernie sat on the ground and watched.  By morning, it had taken the shape of a top.  “Ah” said Bernie.  With that, Crispin found that his hands were no longer his to control.  He watched, amazed as they expertly worked the wood’s crude surface, quickly smoothing the rough planes.  Small grooves appeared—what looked to be symbols.  By the afternoon, as they sat beneath the bridge, the top was finished.  Bernie took it quickly.  As the boy spun it, Crispin saw what looked like birds in flight, alighting in a tree and flying off again.  “Good Crispin” the boy cooed. Then to his surprise, Crispin felt a marvelous surge of pleasure— no longer tired or hungry—he felt happy.  In that moment, his stunted heart felt love for the monster who had enslaved him.

4

NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT

OCT, 1894

“Well, luv, what do you think? Shall we tell him tomorrow?”  Crispin enjoyed the rest of the rabbit stew.  Sucking the delicate bones of the dead rabbit, he watched the woman as she finished cleaning the bar top.  It was late--past midnight on a Monday. The Dancing Stag was empty, save for the barmaid, her new suitor, and the suitor’s small son, who was sleeping peacefully under a corner table—a knitted blanket keeping him warm.  Several carvings of Crispin’s, including an impressive Stag’s head, hung above a shelf behind the bar.  The sales had afforded him and Bernie a room in a nearby boarding house. He regretted the fact that they would soon be leaving.  He enjoyed a real bed and an occasional bath.

 Bernie said it must be tomorrow.  Crispin glanced at the corner where he slept. Was he really sleeping?  Doubtful.  Willie said he made her uncomfortable. Crispin had reassured her. “He needs the love of a mother—it’s been hard on the boy.” She folded her apron, creasing the folds. Her brown eyes had the look of a dying fawn. He reached up and stroked her hair. Good to feel a woman again, he thought.  He’d been too long without. Not a girl, though. She was older than the thirty-two she professed.  More like forty-two—and a bit too large for his taste—but still…overripe for the plucking.

“Let’s go in the back,” he whispered, “just for a while…” She took a quick look in the corner.  The boy seemed asleep.  Crispin saw her shudder.

 “Such a small boy, I don’t know why I…”

“What, luv?” he asked—knowing exactly what.

 She shrugged.  “Okay Crispie—but just for a few minutes.”

 “That’s my girl,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.  He reached around and cupped her breast.

 “A few minutes is all—then we must stop.”

“Of course, dear girl—after the wedding, there will be time...” 

Much later, when he thought about it, he was glad she came.  It startled him—he was just finishing himself--when she let out a stream of moaning (like a cow wanting milking he laughed to himself). They had but a few minutes in the crowded closet.  “He might wake.” She was nervous.  “Don’t worry dear heart, he’ll be fine.”  In a rare spirit of generosity, (he admitted it was rare) he saw it was fitting--that she had a small bit of pleasure, considering what happened and all.

 He puzzled over what happened that next night for weeks, trying to make sense of it. Did they open a door? Is that what happened?  “They’ll know it was us,” he worried.  He had no objections to anything; however, he didn’t like the thought of hanging. “Do what I tell you and you’ll be rewarded.” The child’s eyes took on a threatening glare.  Crispin nodded enthusiastically.  Hanging was preferable to anything Bernie might inflict.  “Of course, lad—whatever you say—I’m completely on board.” 

Tuesday night, her house smelled of onions and bread. Crispin had sat on the small settee, its rose velvet freshly brushed and looking crimson in the shadow of an ornate lamp.  A few eventful moments in their brief courtship told him that there was nothing of value in the tidy white house.  Still, he approved of her excellent housekeeping.  Aunt Meg could have learned a thing or two. Later, he was surprised to see Bernie eat everything, including the tapioca pudding.  Unusual.  he knew the boy was selective, despite their periods of hunger. Candles—how many were there?  He hid them in the small wagon near the house.  Bernie had been collecting candles—taking them. Crispin distracted their owners with his wooden carvings.  Won’t they see you?  Bernie assured him they would not. He had wondered what purpose they served. That night he saw what happened when the candles burned.

He struck her with a wooden club he had carved the day before. Crispin made a show of announcing their “engagement” to his “son”.  Willie sat at his right—her eyes downcast—unable to look at the boy. “Not too hard,” Bernie warned, she must wake up before we finish.  Bernie spilled a glass of milk.  As she reached to retrieve it, Crispin struck an expert blow.  She was unconscious for an hour.  When she woke, the satisfaction in Bernie’s yellow eyes made Crispin feel proud.

The star drawn in blood--whose blood was it? They were all naked.  Pools of blood, like puddles after a cloudburst, glistened in the candlelight.  Bernie’s hands dripped, adding to the puddles.  Smears and streaks covered most of his frail child’s body. Did Bernie draw the star using his own blood?  Bits of that night were a blank.  He remembered the awful smell, wondering if he had soiled himself and fearing the consequences. Bernie seemed indifferent to it.

 Bernie cut his palm—smearing the blood on the woman before she woke. He was afraid Bernie would want to cut him too, but Bernie turned his attention to the barmaid. Willie screamed. When her mouth opened, the boy grabbed her tongue and sliced it off. The screams were soon moans. Not as loud now, Crispin thought approvingly.   

The moaning reminded him of when she came.  Interesting—how similar the cries were—one of pleasure and the other…  She was tied down (securely—Crispin was careful) and the candles were all around…and eyes—he saw eyes coming through a tunnel-- watching. Why did he think of a door?  Click clack clack clack—it must be the sound of their black wings slapping the air or breaking through… Bernie knelt near the woman…his little body rocking back and forth.  Willie’s fawn eyes followed the sway.  The child was whispering, while she kept trying to say (plead?), “Kill me.”  She had no tongue, but he was sure-- that’s what she mean to say.  He held her tethered hands to keep her steady as Bernie continued to cut her. Tears ran down the barmaid’s cheek and fell into the thick red puddles.

As he pressed his palms firmly down on her wrists, Crispin allowed himself to wonder what came next—best to keep quiet—do as you’re told. Bernie’s hands, clots of the barmaid’s blood clinging to his fingers, rose abruptly as the light from the candles floated free—the flames dancing and spinning.  Fear clutched at Crispin’s throat—what if those flames—what if they mean to…then a sudden sensation—indescribable—oh the pleasure—the “reward”, he realized with delight and wonder.  It poured into him as if he were a wine glass—filling him to the brim.   Overwhelmed, he gazed at Willie.  She looked back with supreme indifference.

Then, as if she found it all incredibly tiresome, her eyes turned away from him, her face relaxed, and tilting her head slowly to her shoulder, she died.   The boy cooed as he stroked her hand, his strange face content.  The candles dimmed.  The floating eyes were gone.  “We leave now,” the boy commanded.  They cleaned the blood from their bodies and took the ropes from the dead woman.  Crispin carried her to her bed. After dressing, they set fire to Willie, her bed, and her small neat house. 

“Won’t they know it was us? He was afraid.

 “Stupid Crispin, I told you not to worry. They’ll think she killed herself because you left her. I suggested it already when the bar was full of people.” Bernie was losing patience with him.  Crispin decided to keep his doubts to himself.  They were on the road a few hours before the pleasure began to fade.  He was depressed—he hated the cold.