The Light

First posted September 2019.

Oliver stood in the cavernous entrance hall, breathing shallowly and tapping his feet. His collar seemed to have shrunk in the time he had been waiting, and he wedged two fingers between the shirt and his neck, tugging at the collar in an effort to loosen it. He had no reason to be nervous. It was only a meeting, a business proposition from an old friend. He was under no obligation to agree to it; he only needed to hear Peter out, thank him kindly for the opportunity, and turn it down.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Oli,” Peter said as he entered the hall. He shook Oliver’s hand firmly, clasping his other hand atop the handshake. “So good to see you, after all this time. Still dressing like it’s last century, I see,” he added with a roguish grin.

Oliver laughed sheepishly by way of reply, worrying at his collar again.

“Come in, come in,” Peter said, ushering Oliver into the parlour. “Have some tea. Still two sugars?”

“Please,” Oliver nodded as he sat down. “How have things been in--oh, I’ve forgotten. Where were you this time?”

Peter chuckled as he passed Oliver a gilded rose-covered teacup. “Don’t worry, I can hardly keep up with me myself. It was...Portugal, I think, after the last time I saw you. Then west Africa and around the cape, on to India.”

“Goodness,” Oliver’s eyes widened and he blinked several times before taking a sip of tea.

“You really ought to get out and see the world, Oli,” Peter said, a romantic breathlessness colouring his voice. Everything he said seemed like a dramatic declaration from an adventurous stage hero. “There are miraculous things out there.”

Oliver hummed thoughtfully into his teacup.

Peter laughed. “I’ve not asked you here to propose shipping you off to India, no need to fuss. I know you better than that.”

The delicate cup and saucer clinked as Oliver set them on the table. He looked up at Peter, whose sparkling dark eyes and charming smile were going to be very difficult to turn down.

“Anyway,” Peter sighed, leaning back on the chaise. “I don’t want to talk business right off the bat. Would you like to see what I’ve brought back from India?”

They walked down a corridor of dark wood, illuminated by electric lamps. The walls of both sides were lined with paintings. Stories told so fast the words had no space between them flowed from Peter’s mouth as they strolled, weaving a multi-faceted tapestry of the sensory experiences of his travels rather than the specific events. Oliver’s eyes skated over the paintings of Peter’s ancestors and family members, still life scenes of food and flowers, exotic landscapes, and gardens in the back of castles and stately manor houses. He stopped at one portrait without realising he had. Peter continued walking forward, his words becoming more distant and muffled as Oliver’s eyes remained fixed on one point.

It was a portrait of a young girl, her face upturned toward a source of light above the painter’s head. She looked somewhat apprehensive, holding taut the strings that tied her bonnet as faint frown lines creased her brow. But it was not the girl that held Oliver’s attention; it was the man behind her. The background was faint, but there was a garden path, neither narrow nor wide, visible behind the girl, leading to a small wooden gate behind which the man stood. It was difficult to tell if the man was looking at the girl or the light above her. His face was sallow and gaunt, and his head-to-toe black attire made his face appear paler. His icy grey eyes were hungry.

“Oli?” Peter’s voice echoed from further down the hall.

Oliver tore his eyes from the portrait and half-ran to catch up with Peter.

At the end of the hallway, Peter opened the doors to a study. A small elephant carved from ivory sat on the large polished-wood desk next to a stack of papers, an addressed but unsealed envelope, and an intricately decorated crimson pen with Peter’s initials inlaid in gold at the top. Peter gestured at the small red leather chair in front of the desk and Oliver sat in it as Peter opened the curtains before sitting down behind the desk.

“So. Business,” Peter said, folding his hands on top of the desk.

Oliver swallowed, crossing one knee over the other and clasping his hands around it.

“Independence is looming over India, I suspect,” said Peter. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a cigarette case. He offered one to Oliver, who shook his head. Peter struck a match and continued speaking with the cigarette in his mouth as he lit it. “Which will make it dashed difficult to export. I intend to go back as soon as possible, but I simply can’t count on having the time to move things to my buyers myself on my return. I need someone here.” He emphasised the last word, striking the desk with the tip of one finger.

“Which is where I come in, I assume.” Oliver maintained his pose, still as a statue.

“Precisely.” Peter leaned back in his chair. “You could even stay in the country, mostly. No further than France, anyway.”

“France?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Oli,” Peter said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s like hopping a river. My contacts in France all speak the King’s.”

“It’s not the language I’m worried about,” Oliver muttered, looking down at his feet.

“What are you afraid of?”

Oliver’s ears felt hot. He unlaced his fingers and tugged at his shirt cuffs, swallowing again before speaking. “Nothing. Or...everything. It’s hard to explain.”

Peter leaned forward, resting the elbow of the arm holding the cigarette on the desk. “Will you promise me you’ll think about it?”

Oliver nodded before he realised he was doing it. He was immediately cross with himself; it wasn’t a ‘yes,’ at least, but he hadn’t managed the ‘no’ either. Even the smallest hint of possibility of upset was too paralysing.

They rose from the desk and walked together back down the hall. “It’ll be good for you,” Peter said as they walked. “You might even like it, you know.”

As they made their way down the hall, Oliver looked again with particular focus at the portrait of the young girl. The face in the background had vanished.

“I’m heading back early next week,” Peter said as Oliver put his coat back on in the entrance hall. “Might I have your answer by Friday?”

“Yes, of course,” Oliver said, his mind already spinning with ways to turn Peter down.

“Very good.” Peter clapped Oliver’s shoulder jovially. “See you then.”

A taxicab waited for Oliver outside the house, but he waved it on. The walk would rid him of the relentless, restless energy building pressure inside him. It was true, what he had said to Peter; he was afraid, but unsure what he feared. He had often been asked what it was that prevented him from working, making his own home away from his mother and sister, or travelling outside the town of his birth, and he never could answer. It was not exactly a fear of anything going wrong, but more a fear of taking action in the first place. As such, there was no logical reason for the fear, not one he could articulate to those who asked; yet, the fear remained.

He approached the restaurant at which he was meant to meet his sister, Adelaide, for dinner. He suspected she was so delighted that he’d agreed to leave the house to meet Peter that she intended to prolong his time out of the house as much as possible. She was forever making a fuss about her younger brother, but even more so lately, as she was soon to be married and leave for the north. Oliver wasn’t sure if he was sad to see her go or relieved that one fewer person would be around to hound him.

Peering through the large window to see if Adelaide had already arrived, he caught the reflection of the street scene. He saw himself, his slicked brown hair slightly darkened by sweat at the temples and his starched white collar sticking up from beneath his navy blue wool coat. The flow of people around him did not stop, but he saw a man dressed all in black stopped further down the street, seemingly looking at him. He turned to look into the actual street rather than its reflection, but he could not see the man. When he looked back at the reflection, he could not find him again.

Casting his gaze downwards, he continued walking briskly all the way home. He ignored his mother’s question of why he wasn’t at dinner with Adelaide as he entered, and made his way directly up the stairs and into his bedroom. He dressed for bed with his eyes half-shut, but when he put out the light and lay down in bed, his eyes could not close.

The next morning, he awoke with a pounding headache. He stumbled his way into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Rising from the basin, he almost could not dare to look into the mirror. He slowly raised his eyes, but saw only himself reflected, water dripping off his face. He inspected every corner of the mirror as he patted his face dry.

Somewhat relieved, he turned on the taps to run himself a bath. Steam rose from the hot water and filled the room, quickly fogging the mirror and giving the tile a clouded, misty quality. He turned off the taps, sank into the tub, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to relax.

He did not know how much time had passed, but the pain in his head subsided and a hint of chill began to creep into the water. He sat up and took his flannel from the side of the tub. As he wiped the sweat off his face, he saw something round and bright in the tile on the wall across from him. He dropped the flannel and turned around. There was nothing on the wall. He looked more closely at the tile in front of him, but only the wavy reflection of his own face looked back at him.

Dried and dressed, he walked downstairs to the dining room. Adelaide and their mother were already seated at the table, eating their breakfast.

“Oliver, what is wrong with you?” his mother asked, frowning as she cracked the top of an egg with her spoon.

“P-pardon?” Oliver’s hands shook as he sat down.

“You went to bed early without a word. And you abandoned your sister in town.”

Adelaide scoffed. “He didn’t abandon me. I’m sure he was just overwhelmed and wanted to come home right away. Didn’t you, Oliver?” She looked at him without an ounce of reproach. He couldn’t help but mirror her small, gentle smile.

“That’s no excuse,” their mother said, her sour expression remaining firm. “You have got to get over this nonsense.”

Oliver picked up the glass of water next to his place and took a long sip.

“What did Peter want?” Adelaide asked, raising her voice over their mother’s continued grumblings.

Glancing into and through the bottom of his glass before setting it down, Oliver saw a skeletal face in the swirls of the tablecloth. He gasped, choking on the water he’d suddenly inhaled, and hastily set the glass down. Adelaide rose to her feet so quickly her chair fell behind her. She ran to Oliver and patted his back as he coughed. He saw nothing in the tablecloth beyond the damask pattern.

“Oliver? Are you alright?”

Regaining his breath, he reassured his sister, “Yes. I’m--I’m going for a walk.”

Without looking up at his sister or waiting for another word, he immediately turned around and left the house, grabbing a blue coat off the rack in the hall without pausing. He tried to put the coat on as he walked, but realised too late that it was Adelaide’s. He folded the coat over his arm and kept walking.

It was cold outside, but a pleasant cold to most people: the kind of autumnal cold in which you’d rather have a coat, but not miss it too much if you didn’t have one. The weather was perfect for a relaxed stroll in the park, and most of the town seemed to have had the same idea. Children shrieked joyfully as they played in the grass. Swans and ducks glided hopefully toward people seated on benches with food. While nearly everyone walking around the park’s large pond went one way, Oliver walked in the opposite direction, shivering as if it was snowing.

He looked around with halting glances at the red and orange trees, the chattering birds, and the people around him, not letting his gaze linger too long on any one spot. His eyes landed briefly on the pond and saw a shapeless, drifting reflection he couldn’t quite parse. Stepping closer, he looked down and saw--not his own reflection at all, but the man from the painting. Dressed all in black, his pale yellow face grinned as the ripples in the water pushed his image into distortion. His grey eyes seemed unfocused, somewhere above Oliver’s head.

Oliver took a stuttering breath and leaned closer. The man locked eyes with him. Before Oliver had a moment to think, the man leapt from the water.

-

“Oliver!” Peter exclaimed as he opened the door. “Come in, let me take your coat.” Without waiting for a response, Peter herded him through the door and removed his black coat, hanging it on a rack.

“I hate to rush you, old chap,” Peter continued, “But I’m simply too impatient. I must know.” He took a deep breath, looking straight into the eyes of the man in front of him. “What do you say, Oli?”

“I’d be delighted, Peter,” he replied with a wide grin.

Peter beamed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Good man! Come.”

They walked down the painting-lined corridor as Peter excitedly began detailing Oliver’s first assignments, derailing into stories about his clients and pieces of art he’d previously picked up abroad. Once again, Peter kept walking as his companion paused in front of the portrait of the young girl. In the background of the painting, Oliver stood at the garden gate, dressed all in black, gazing up at the light above the girl’s head with a mixture of awe and terror.

“Oli?” Peter’s voice came from the end of the corridor. “Are you ready to get started?”

“I’ve never been more ready in my life,” the thing that wore Oliver’s face replied.