Мэтью Перл: The Dante Chamber

She prayed to God without questioning his ways. She trusted.

Here, in this dark corner of a forsaken dungeon, she allowed herself to cry — tears flowing that she would never permit to be seen. When she opened her eyes, she stared in amazement at what she saw.

A feather.

A single feather tucked into a crevice in the ground. At first, it was just the novelty that attracted her. When she handled it, she realized something more. This feather’s shaft or calamus, the quill that had given voice to so many generations of writers, was so strong and sharp it drew blood from her fingertip.

A massive ball of fire erupted from the boiler house on the far east end of the sanatorium. This was followed by another, two structures down, then a series of explosions on the opposite row of sheds and outbuildings. Flames jumped and crept from structure to structure, as black smoke poured out into the sky.

The bursting flames were a striking contrast with the cover of snow, some of which began to wash away in streams of boiling water.

Fallow charged out from the chapel, his heart dropping into his stomach. “Ironhead Herman,” he gasped. “He’s waging war on us, Sibbie. We have to get everyone to work together to put it out, get the buckets from the greenhouse! Save what’s left!”

Behind him, Sibbie walked at a much more leisurely pace, as if visiting a gallery instead of a raging conflagration. She quietly replied: “No.”

He turned to her in a state of profound fear. Fear for his safety, yes. But not only that.

He feared what would become of his mind if all they had built was suddenly taken. Since the tragedy that befell his congregation as a young preacher, and the despair that followed it, the Phillip Sanatorium’s bold mission was the first time he felt that thrill in his blood he used to experience at the pulpit. The ability to wield his influence to change people. Sibbie made it possible.

The ecstasies of that thrill had overtaken him upon the first purgatorial sacrifice of Jasper Morton, which he watched from a safe distance behind the crowd of bystanders. He knew everything would change then. How Fallow trembled internally when the three poets, Christina, Tennyson, and Holmes, came to speak to them in London. He felt a pit of anger form at their attempted incursion. He tried to follow the example of nearby Sibbie’s tranquillity, held on to her for strength. They had known investigations would begin, starting after the discovery of Morton’s martyrdom and, as a precaution, he and Sibbie had come to London to clear away any traces of connections between themselves and Morton and other members of their group who were cleansing their souls. At Reuben Loring’s crowded boardinghouse, they hurriedly ransacked the soldier’s papers and books and took all documents that could have linked him to the sanatorium, then brought them in sacks to burn in the church’s boiler room. Loring had been studying the cantos of Purgatory narrating the terrace chosen for him by Sibbie — the Wrathful. (Fallow had missed Loring’s copy of Purgatory , kept in a special place separate from the rest of his books.) As the London police began to look for clues into the earlier deaths, Loring and other devotees had begun to flee for the sanatorium.

Now that the flames were spreading over their great sanctuary, across the structures of the former mill, Fallow grabbed Sibbie’s arm.

“Have you gone mad?” he declared. “The whole place will be destroyed. There’s no way to send for the fire engines to reach us with the road conditions.”

She watched the flames chase each other, consuming everything they had worked to build. She tipped her head back, as though being warmed by the morning sun. “Let it come. Let us all enter the final passage. To be cleansed.”

“You—” Fallow stopped himself and stared at her. “You had word sent to Herman that you were back.”

She did not answer.

“That is how Herman knew to come back, and that is why you told Herman not to wait a week for payment, to expect it at sunset when you knew it would not be there. Tomorrow is the thirteenth of April, when Dante is transported to Paradise from the top of Mount Purgatory.”

“Not just the thirteenth of April, but Holy Wednesday — just as it was in the calendar of 1300 when Dante ascended. The calendars of 1300 and 1870 are the same. It is all aligned. All will be cleansed.”

“You expected this. Didn’t you? You knew when people cross the opium smugglers Herman represents that he has a reputation for committing arson in their homes and places of business, as warning to others. The seventh terrace, the last purgation, the passage through fire... You anticipated this coming all along?”

“I knew you would not have the heart for it,” she said cruelly. “You see enemies around us but there are none. Brother Herman was a divine instrument.”

“Think about what you are giving up. Through the power of what we have created, there are more and more people — people of all ages, from all parts of society, to bolster our ranks. We can fill England and beyond with our believers.”

“When I was taken away, Brother Orin, you became too interested in the feeling of your own control. You surrounded yourself with beauty, you tasted power. The true power in this has always been to reveal the way to the light for all humanity. To reveal the end .”

Fallow stumbled over himself as he scrambled away.

Browning was shouting to the policemen, “I know how to find the fifth terrace!” just as the first explosions took place. Browning and two of the policemen were knocked over by the force, and the other men held out their arms to shield themselves.

Branagan pulled Browning to his feet. “The fifth terrace?”

Browning, winded, took a moment to find his voice again. In the fifth terrace of Purgatory, he explained, Dante discovers the Avaricious and Prodigal, their wrists and ankles bound. “Dante tells us they are placed facedown because they are not meant to see the sky — not meant to see God.”

Branagan called out to the others: “Look for enclosed buildings with no skylights or high windows.”

Browning hurried to keep up with the policemen. Narrowing their choices, Constable Branagan used a small battering ram to knock through the door of the woodshed. Branagan turned on the cyclops lamp on his belt to break through the darkness. He and Browning could make out two people, one male and one female, tied up just as Browning predicted.

He recognized the man: the first person they had spoken to when they initially visited the Phillip Sanatorium, the man with the distinctively shaped head, something like an onion. He had been digging or weeding then, but Browning now understood he wasn’t doing either. As one of the shades explained to Dante on that terrace of their misdeeds: We did not lift our eyes on high but set our sight on earthly things . He was preparing for his coming purgation.

“I think they’ve lost consciousness,” said Branagan. “We need another pair of hands to drag them...”

Browning ran back out to call for help. “Over here—”

Another round of explosions. The small structure erupted into flames, consuming the tied-up victims in an instant.

Browning lost sight of Branagan, too.

“Constable,” Browning cried out. “Branagan?”

Branagan had leapt away, avoiding the flames by a hair, and dropped into the snow where he rolled to Browning’s feet.

A fresh cry reached them: “ Here! ”

Browning spun around at the sound of the voice.

“What was it, Browning?” Branagan asked as Browning helped him to his feet.

“That voice. It’s Christina Rossetti.”

Christina had heard a click. She had inserted the sharp quill of the feather into the lock of the iron door. Twisting it, turning it, pressing it further, not so roughly that it would snap. Then: click . It worked. What was so peculiar was not the absolutely incredible fact that she had picked the lock and released the bolt with a feather, of all things on earth. What was so peculiar was that Christina had complete confidence it would work — as soon as she held the feather, she knew it would and she knew why . She wanted it to be due to a lifetime of devout prayer but knew it wasn’t so simple.