The day of her father’s funeral, Alison wondered how she could stop her mother from selling the family home.
She stood in the graveyard feeling the winter chill seeping into her skin like a cold slithering snake looking for somewhere to hide. She stared at the tall skeletal trees with their lithe phantom limbs leaning upwards imploringly to a pregnant apathetic sky; they whispered their own bleak tale of barrenness and longing, one that she could fully understand, though dared not contemplate too much. A stature of an angel stared mournfully, her ashen face smothered with thick green moss; only the downcast eyes visible. She spotted a squirrel out of the corner of her eye and stared at it leaping nimbly along the tombstones, its bushy tail disappearing into the undergrowth.
“Pay attention.” Alison’s mother whispered into her ear. She drew away from her mother, and glanced at her face, as unreadable as ever.
The family stood silent and grim in a neat row like sentries of austerity, the blackness of their clothes as hostile as the squawking crow that eyed them from the top of the church. In the distance the gentle sound of wind chimes emanated through the trees, the melodic tune fluttered through the breeze uttering its enchanted sound of childlike innocence.
The elderly priest talked about her father’s accomplishments and God, a God that her father had never believed in. His words seemed to withdraw intermittently into the background of her world, like the sound from a film she had lost interest in. Underneath her feet Alison felt the moist wet mud and grass clinging to her shoes. Plumes of smoke rose from a farmer’s field on the other side of the graveyard rising in the air; the smell was redolent of autumn, one of her favourite times of year.
Looking down into the casket all she could think of was how he’d deserted her. She knew it was wrong to think like this, even selfish, but she couldn’t help it. Grief could be a self-centred beast she reflected. You promised you’d never leave me, she thought, staring down into the soil and the earth where his corpse would soon be lowered. The priest stopped talking and suddenly it was over.
The family drew away from the graveside in a disciplined line and she stepped towards the waiting limousine. She took one last look at the grave site, as if she expected the scene to dissipate, that perhaps none of it had been authentic, but merely part of an elaborate hoax. The black crow flew from the chapel and landed close to her father’s grave, it tilted its head and observed her with knowing eyes.
The doctor had prescribed temazepam. To be used in moderation as it could affect the normal grieving process. The pills made her feel lethargic and remote from reality; as if a gentle warm fog were clouding everything in the world. She sat next to her mother. The driver slammed the door shut. Her mother rooted in her handbag and fished out a compact that she checked her reflection in. She niftily applied blusher to her cheeks.
“I’m glad it’s all over.” She said, contemptuously. “I can’t bear funerals.”
Alison gritted her teeth and cringed inside.
She closed her eyes. Drowsily she rested her head against the cool window; she welcomed the jittery vibrations of the car as they drove over speed bumps. The jolts disguised the shudders moving through her body. Memories of her father began to form in her mind, like nebulous shapes progressively developing fixed contours and lines. He’d called her sparrow, because he said she reminded him of the bird, plain and tomboyish with a muscular slender build and mousy-brown hair. But he said her voice was musical, the kind of voice one needed to hear in times of desperation. From the time she was a toddler he’d climb the stairs to her room late at night, his hands laden with drawings and sketches meticulously drawn.
“Look at my building Sparrow.” He’d say, ruffling her hair.
And she’d stare at the complex diagrams on the paper, the architectural drawings of her father Samuel Taylor-Wallis, his theories and philosophies that would soon be built into mortar and stone. Her tiny fingers would trace the outlines and curves, as she tried to picture what the building would look like when it had been built. She felt someone shaking her arm, bringing her back to the present, straightening up she stared at her mother’s exasperated face.
“We’re here.” She said, seething between pursed lips. Her mother’s face resembled a mask, Elise thought, a stiff merciless mask, wholly impenetrable.
“You need to pull yourself together.” She said, as she stepped from the car. “We have to accept he’s gone and get on with our life and I’m selling this house.”
Her words struck Elise with a stinging force. In the house she shrugged off her coat and waited by her mother’s side in the open doorway for the guests to arrive. The cars drew into the driveway, an elegant cortege, packed with people she didn’t know very well. She shook hands with her father’s friends, his colleagues and relatives. In the living room the guest’s milled around the room, picking up sandwiches and drinking glasses of wine they chatted amiably. At one point her mother’s shrill laughter filled the room. Disgusted, Elise retreated to the staircase heading for her room.
On the landing a man leaned against the wall reading one of her father’s books. Like everyone else he was dressed soberly in a white shirt and black jacket and pants. On hearing her step closer, he turned to face her.
“Alison.”
“Do I know you?”
“Michael Anderson, I worked with your father.”
“I see you found my father’s library.” She pointed to the book.
He looked taken aback. “I’m sorry. It must seem rude to find me wandering around your house picking up books at a time like this. This book is about design and primitivism, it’s one I’ve never read it.”
She nodded, downstairs she heard a glass break and shatter on the floor, she wondered if she should go and help but decided against it, they could manage without her.
“My father used Primitivism and symbolism from the Aztec Culture into many of his designs. This house is a testament to that obsession.”
“Yes it’s remarkable, the design is mesmerising. The entire house has a monumental air, the living room especially. I’ve seen photographs of course. But it’s nothing compared to standing inside it.”
“Come with me, I’ll show you something.”
She stepped into the library on the right hand side of the landing. Behind her father’s cluttered desk she flicked a switch. A creaking sound emanated through the room, as one of the bookcases eased open to reveal a hidden stairway.
They both stood at the entrance and stared down the stone steps.
“My father enjoyed secret rooms. It’s not unusual to have them built behind a bookcase, but the room itself is unique.”
She flicked a light switch and they climbed down.
The room was an octagonal shape. One wall had a complex design built on top from ceiling to floor using cascade border tiles, on the floor an elaborate magic circle lay, it had deep Venetian glass tiles including iridescent and precious metals. It drew the eyes with its grandiose magnificence. Michael bent down and stared at the circle curiously, he ran his hand across it.
“It’s stunning.”
“My father was also interested in metaphysics.” She said.
The ceiling was layered thick wood panels. The room had an ancient feel and a reverent atmosphere. The only pieces of furniture were a solitary desk and chair. Behind the desk stood a black marble stone statue of a man staring up at the sky, his arms outstretched as if he was waiting for something to fall into his palms.
“The man seeking knowledge, that’s what my father always said.”
Michael grinned. “Does he receive these powers from above?”
She shrugged. “In my father’s case I’d say yes. As a child I always thought this room was like a hidden cave. Sometimes I’d sneak in here and hide but he always found me.”
Michael stared around the room with a look of awe. She’d seen this expression many times in her life when people assessed her father’s work.
“What a room.” He exclaimed.
Back upstairs she closed the entrance to the secret room and stepped out onto the landing with him.
“I wondered if you’d received your father’s drawings in the post.” He asked.
She turned his question over in her mind. She’d last spoke to her father on the phone two weeks earlier and he hadn’t mentioned any drawings to her.
“I haven’t received anything yet.”
“He told me he was going to send them to you when we were in Madrid working on the hotel. He said he had some new ideas for the Wright house that he was excited about.”
“I’ll look out for them.”
“Let me know. I’d like to see those drawings.”
“I’ll contact you if they turn up.”
“I’m sorry about your father Alison; perhaps we could have lunch one day.”
Surprised by his kindness she stood for a moment hesitantly, not knowing what to say in response.
“Thank you. She murmured.
She watched him disappear downstairs.
Gentleness was one of the few things that genuinely moved her in a man but unfortunately she didn’t see it often enough in the opposite sex, or perhaps she’d just been unlucky. In the bedroom she sat in front of the dresser and stared at her freckled skin and wide green eyes. She brushed her long brown hair fiercely, staring at the entwined strands of auburn and chestnut in the light. She was sleepy but she needed to stay awake for a while.
Downstairs she mingled briefly with the guests and shook hands with them at the door. She watched the cars leave one by one, until there was only she and her mother left standing in the living room.
“I’m going to bed.” Her mother announced. Alison could tell she’d drunk too much, her words were slurring. She watched her disappear upstairs making sure she didn’t fall.
Back in the living room she was grateful for the silence. She stared around the spacious room. High glass windows provided spectacular views of the surrounding landscaped gardens and land. A gigantic stone fireplace with an Aztec symbol engraved dominated the room, as if it were the entry to some kind of underground vault. The ceiling had been painted to resemble a desert landscape, one of her father’s crazy ideas but it worked somehow. The room manifested feelings of strength and power; the colours beige and cream. Her father had also designed leaded glass windows and doors. They had been a particular favourite of hers from childhood, in these windows ancient symbols were cast into the glass, resembling Japanese Shoji screens. Her father was an expert with light and colour, setting the iridescent glass at angles in the windows and doors to create a magnificent change in colour when light passed through the glass that she loved to watch sunlight filter through in the daytime. The room was dramatic testament to his work.
Sitting on the couch she worked her shoes off and watched the last embers from the fire spitting and popping. She dimmed the lights with a remote control and stared into the dying embers. She didn’t want to cry again, but tears still fell from her eyes whether she liked it or not. It had been that way for days. It was only then that she spied the padded envelope. It lay on the desk close to the hallway. She went to pick it up and lifted it to the light. She recognized her father’s elegant sweeping handwriting straight away. He’d always written beautifully. She turned it over in her hands. Inside there was a thick bundle of papers. He’d written a note on the top.
Sparrow
Here are my last ideas for the Wright House.
I’ll add them to the computer in a day or two. Let me know what you think.
She pressed the envelope close to her chest, how she missed his letters, she always felt cheerful when she received them. Back on the couch she leafed through the drawings. The Wright House was to be a multi-million pound project for a Mr Angus Wright, a wealthy financier and philanthropist who lived in London. The entire design had been completed except for two rooms. The plans for the house were elaborate and avant-garde. In these notes there were specifications for two hidden rooms. One of the rooms would have stairs leading into the basement. There were symbols that she did not recognize on the floor. It made her think of her father’s secret room.
Two days later that she called into her father’s office in London, Chelsea, on Bridge Street. The two principal architects were a Mr Simon Peterson, a man in his late fifties with stern features and the most solemn expression she’d ever seen. Mr Julian Taylor, a gregarious fellow in his forties was second in command, but right now he was abroad in Madrid overseeing her father’s design for the hotel. And finally the most recent architect Michael Anderson. She handed the drawings to Michael who was looking over some paperwork intently with Mr Peterson.
Mr Peterson looked remarkably pleased to see them.
“It wasn’t professional for him to send you these.” Simon Said.
“I’d rather you didn’t criticise my father.”
He looked up flustered. “Of course, that sounded wrong I’m glad we have them.”
“I wondered if Angus Wright still wanted the building constructed the way my father designed it.” She asked.
“I imagine so. We will see him later this afternoon and show him the final designs; I’ll add these new ideas to the 3D model of the house later.”
“I’d like to see my father’s office and remove any personal belongings.”
Simon nodded agreement and Michael came with her down the corridor.
She gazed around the plain orderly room, much different from his chaotic desk at home. Her photograph rested on his desk, she picked it up and stared at her face. For some reason it didn’t seem familiar and she almost laughed at the thought. She’d been younger than in her twenties, she looked happy in the photograph, and she had been happy with him, but not at home.
“I’ll find you a box.” Michael said, disappearing from the room.
She opened her father’s desk drawers and removed some papers. Inside she found a book on Necromancy. She held the book up for Michael to see when he returned. His arms held a big cardboard box.
“Yes, Angus Wright wanted some symbols from the book to appear in the design of the house.”
“Isn’t that a little strange?”
“Perhaps, but he pays well. What he does in his house isn’t our business.”
Elise dropped the book into the box. Her father’s presence seemed to be strong here. She closed her eyes imagining him sitting at this desk; she’d visited him here often over the years.
“Elise would you like to have lunch with me?”
She stared at him for a long moment contemplating the question. Was he asking her to lunch because he pitied her? She wondered, or because he liked her? She wasn’t sure how to react to men anymore. She hadn’t been on a date in the longest time. But right now as she stood in her father’s office, the memories welling up inside her, she realised that lunch would help her escape for a while.
“That would be good thanks.” She said. She picked up five of her father’s notebooks, a plant and a few other photographs of his stints abroad and popped them in the box.
Michael carried the box downstairs and placed it the boot of her car. They strolled around the block and found a comfortable French restaurant in a quiet side street a few minutes from the office in Chelsea. She ordered Salmon with a French salad.
“So tell me about Angus Wright?” She asked, as she waited for the food to arrive.
He stared at her inquisitive face with the mildest of smiles. “Mr Wright is a wealthy man. The family money is old and goes back a few generations. “
“I see. Did my father like him?”
“I don’t know. He’s eccentric, conceited and arrogant. Certainly not the most likeable chap I’ve ever met.”
She smiled, staring down at her plate. She tried to imagine her father creating a house for this strange man. “Did he specifically ask for my father?”
“Yes. He admired your fathers work. He thought his architectural designs pushed boundaries. He liked the way he incorporated ancient symbolism and modern design into his buildings.”
She tucked into the salmon hungrily. It had been days since she’d eaten properly and now she found she was famished.
She stared at Michael’s gentle eyes and moved her gaze away. She was clearly attracted to him and the thought made her nervous. Her past relationships had been a complete failure. She didn’t trust men, her heart had closed long ago and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to open again.
“I was thinking of visiting Angus.” She said.
Michael took a sip from his wine glass and watched her closely. “Be careful if you do, he can be difficult.”
“I can handle eccentric.” She said.
“I’m sure you can.”
Outside they said their goodbyes on the street.
“I’ll ring you later.”
“Okay.”
She watched him walk back to the office, wondering what he was thinking, but right now she had more pressing matters on her mind.
At home her mother waited on the couch in the living room. A smart brooding young man in thick rimmed glasses, stood in the middle of the living room. He was writing notes in a little black notebook.
“I see you’ve been to your father’s office.” She said, staring at the box in Elise’s hands. “This is Mr Wiltshaw a building surveyor, he’s assessing the house.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to sell.”
For a moment she stood there stunned, she hadn’t expected it this quickly. She knew what her mother would do with the house, she’d always hated it. But she was making plans this soon after the funeral? The whole thing sickened her.
“You can’t be serious right now; this is our home, it took him months to build this.” She faltered.
Her mother crossed her legs her features grim and determined. “It’s mine to sell.”
Elise hurried from the room, she didn’t want to hear anymore.
Upstairs in the library she sat at her father’s desk. She was powerless to stop it. Everything legally belonged to her mother. She’d inherited a large sum of money and a trust fund but that was it. The house and contents were hers. She slammed her fist hard on her the desk, it throbbed in pain. She’d spent her entire life here. He’d built it from scratch for them and he’d never have agreed to it being sold like this.
She leafed through the designs for the Wright house. For some reason she felt the need to visit Angus. She telephoned his secretary to make an appointment and was surprised to find he could fit her in the next afternoon; if nothing else she’d escape her mother.
She arrived in Henley-On-Thames for three. The sun burst through the skies lighting the river with beams of golden light. Clusters of autumn leaves were piled high on the streets.
Esmer House was a grade II listed building on an eight acre estate; it had a long winding driveway with tall trees on either side. She pulled up outside and stared at the imposing house. It was a great example of Georgian neo classical architecture; the building was painted white but it exuded both style and grace.
A sombre young man greeted her at the door, and led her into the drawing room. Smiling politely he asked her to wait.
“He’ll be with your shortly.” He said, withdrawing from the room.
The drawing room interior was opulent and refined, the long damask curtains, the antique writing desk and regency paintings of people gone by. A piano stood in the corner of the room and she moved towards it gently touching the keys.
“Elise Taylor-Wallis, it’s nice to meet you.”
She looked up at Angus, he had what could only be called a formidable presence, he was a man who exuded wealth and authority, she thought, but she wasn’t intimidated. Her father had taught her that no man was above her and she should never act as if they were. He was dressed in an elegant tailored tweed suit, in his late fifties she judged, although his face seemed less creased from the burden of middle age. His blue eyes bored into hers with great intensity.
“Come to the study?”
She followed him down a small dimly lit corridor pushing open two huge oak doors.
The room was high and long with plush carpets and ornate Chinese ornaments on shelves. On every wall were rows and rows of antique books protected behind heavy glass. Three samurai swords hung on one wall.
“There must be hundreds of antique books here.” She said, looking over his library. She stopped at a cluster of books on alchemy. She knew the books well but had never seen these earlier editions.
Angus stood beside her. “Are you interested in Alchemy?”
“Yes.” She said. “It’s a fascinating subject. “Did you know that Carl Jung tried to use the theory of alchemical symbolism to try and work it into a spiritual path?”
He leaned against the bookcase and stared at her face with an expression of amusement.
“No I didn’t, you’re as clever as your father.”
She sat down and appraised his study. How she’d like to spend an entire day going through the books in his room. What treasures of knowledge she’d find.
“My father was much cleverer than me. But thanks for the compliment.”
“Come and visit whenever you want to read the books. My door is always open for you.”
He moved around the desk and sat down. She stared at his cufflinks which had the same symbol as his fraternity ring.
“I miss my father. I could really talk to him.”
Angus’s expression was grave but his blue eyes mellowed. “Elise I want to show you something.”
He led her to a computer in the corner of the room. He tapped in a password. She stared at the 3D image of her father’s design of the Wright house. It appeared in all its’ glory on the screen. It would be a wondrous building, she thought.
“Your father isn’t dead. And in my house he will live forever. This design will be his finest creation, the kind that every young architect will strive to have in his portfolio. Did you know that your father was interested in conjuring and metaphysical design?”
“No.”
“Your house is full of metaphysical ideology; in fact symbols of the occult are in every part of your house.”
Her face became solemn. “The occult?”
“Yes.” He studied her face, as if he were trying to gage the thoughts passing through her mind. “Your house is a treasure of occult symbolism.”
He slid a large book from a shelf behind his desk and propped it open at a magic circle.
“Baphomet.” He said.
She stared at the circle. “The name Baphomet first appeared in around 1195 in the Occitan poem Senhors, per los nostres peccatz.” She read out loud.
“You recognize the circle?”
“It’s engraved in the floor of my father’s secret room. But why did he do that?”
“Your father believed in magic Elise, he also thought that one could put a spirit or part of one’s spirit into a building. He thought there was a way for spirit to live in a building, to become joined with a building.”
She tried to understand what he was saying to her. Only now did she realise why his fraternity ring and cufflinks had the same design she’d seen in her home. It was as if pieces of a jigsaw were suddenly falling into place. She wasn’t sure what to make of Angus’s strange talk. But she felt afraid.
“My mother wants to sell our home.” She said.
Angus didn’t say anything for a moment.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Perhaps you don’t need to do anything; perhaps your father will take care of the situation.
She laughed. “From the other side you mean?”
“What I’d say.” He spoke softly. “Was that your father and I believed in occult powers. Your house was constructed on land that was blessed by the occult, your father’s spirit breathes in that house even in death. The house has breath that is what I believe. It hears, it sees and it watches no differently than a living organism. “
She closed her eyes firmly. This couldn’t be happening. She’d been warned about his eccentricities but this was too much. “What you are telling me is you both worshipped the devil.” She spat the words out, as if the mere sound of them was distasteful.
“Elise.” He replied, stepping around the desk. He gently stroked her arm as if he were a father comforting a child. “The church is filled with hypocrites, so is the occult for that matter. But what we admire, the metaphysical theories, the occult philosophies are older than time. It’s not something you have to fear simply because your father believed in it, he didn’t sacrifice animals or people, he just believed in some of the theories behind it. His fascination was with a living building as he called it.”
She stood up. “This is crazy.”
“Is it?” His face was emotionless. “I hope you come back one day Elise, you might find some books that interest you.”
She felt strangely tired again and unsure what to do.
“I’m not sure.”
“I’d like you to watch my house being built, to see its’ construction. Your father’s work put into action.”
She stood up and stepped towards the door. “I have to go.” She said.
And with that she hurried from the room back outside and into her car. Back at home she uncapped the bottle of pills the doctor had prescribed and swallowed a three. She lay on the bed and waited to drift into sleep. She didn’t want to think about her father, the house or her mother. She wanted oblivion, peace. She didn’t know how long she’d been sleeping, but eventually she heard the housekeeper Anna call out; half-awake she stared at the clock on her bedside table and saw it was seven-thirty pm. The cries became louder and more frantic.
Elise made her way to the door and swung it open.
“Anna what’s wrong?” She called, from the bedroom.
She ran down the stairs and stared at Anna staring into her father’s secret room. What was she doing there?
“Anna what are you doing?”
Anna was staring down the stairs and wouldn’t meet her gaze. Elise hurried to the open bookcase and pushed Anna out of the way, looking into the secret room. Her mother lay there on the ground, on the magic circle, she was completely still. Elise ran down the stairs and felt her pulse. Nothing, her skin felt cold and clammy. A trail of blood ran from her leg onto the circle. Elise found it hard to look at her mother’s contorted face. She was gone. A feeling of fear flooded her.
The house filled with strangers, ambulance men, two policemen, Anna had witnessed the whole thing. Her mother had been drinking and looking for some financial documents, Anna had tried to keep her seated but she’d gone to her husband’s room behind the bookcase and slipped on the top stair. After a few hours the house emptied and everything became strangely quiet.
Elise stared through the windows into the garden. A black cat was running through the grass outside. She’d never seen the cat before.
She crept down the stairs into the secret room, leaning against the wall and closed her eyes. It was as if the walls and the very foundations were breathing. Did it have a heart? Did it have a pulse? Did this unfathomable creature that lived inside the mortar and the brick understand its connection to the house? There were so many unanswerable questions. She had no idea whether it was part of the devil or her father, or a combination of both. But she could feel it. She wasn’t fearful anymore. At that moment the sound of groaning pipes resounded through the house and whisked from room to room, as if the house were letting her know that yes it was alive and it could feel her, hear her. She touched the wall with the palm of her hand and pressed her face against its coolness. Whatever her father had done, he’d done for her. Did it matter what powers were at work? She had the rest of her life to live here now.
“I know you are there.” She said out loud. “I accept you, whatever you are, but you must not kill again.” She said. She reflected ruefully on the words she’d chosen. After all she’d wished her mother dead. Shouldn’t she accept part of the responsibility? Perhaps the house had heard her thoughts and acted on them?
She realised she was bargaining with forces far more powerful than herself, but she had to make an effort to let it know what she thought. Hadn’t Angus said it could see and hear? She and this thing would be living together now. She had to attempt to establish some authority over it.
She felt something move through her body, the feeling of a breeze, a warm summer breeze that pushed through her skin and flesh delicately. For a moment she froze in stunned silence. She gazed down at the magic circle under her feet. Anna had washed the blood away at some point in the day. The glass stones shone luminously, the colours transmuted and mutated. Small faces appeared in the texture, faces that moved, laughed and screamed in equal measure. She stared at the faces in fascination reaching out to touch them. In the next moment they were gone. She sensed she was alone.
She wondered what the house would show her in the future. What journey she and it would take. She hoped it would be an interesting adventure. And she made the decision not to tell anyone else about the house. No one would believe her. She stepped out into the garden. The black cat was there again. She wondered where it lived. It seemed to be a stray. She bent down to stroke it watching it hurrying inside the house through the open door as if it belonged there. It moved through the living room investigating everything in its line of vision. A cat would be a start, she thought, a cat would be good for a house, she thought.
She smiled, gazing at the gardens and fields in the distance. She hoped wherever her father was, he had found what he wanted.