Visitation by God

Chapter 4 in a proposed historical fantasy, The Death of John Polidori.
Previous chapter.

I did not know long I stood in remote silence, looking back and forth at my lifeless body and towards the door where my recent guests had departed. I felt a sudden urge to tidy my scattered papers, sort the book piles that I would stumble over in a scramble to find a specific work.

I had never admitted anyone to my room during the entirety of my stay. I’d had the odd unwelcome guest – creditors, long-lost relations, beggars, hoodwinkers – but they were always quickly shown the door.

As I scratched my head I noted the sensation. An ever so slight difference in the itch, that no matter how hard ’twas rubbed, lingered too long. I tolerated it for as long as I could bare, and when it seemed I could not take my mind off it, it abruptly faded. I did not tempt fate and try to will it back.

A soft breeze fluttered the curtains and admitted feeble shafts of sunlight upon my writing desk. A creak and a slam indicated the ingress of a person into the hallway of my lodgings. Inevitably, a pile of books tumbled. Among them was the 3rd Canto of my former employer, his epic autobiographical verse novel, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Harold had cemented him as the undisputed literary celebrity of the day.

The hallway door slamming shut was the prelude to a draft, as my door was dramatically flung open. The man hovering within the frame surveyed the scene sternly, his eyes set deep beneath a scholastic forehead, strands of grey-hair growing from and around the ears. He grunted, briefly putting his hand to his heart, before moving it down towards his stomach.

My father, Gaetano! I ran to his feet and prostrated myself before his impassive bulk. A slight twitch of the left eye was the only reaction he proffered upon seeing my limp, awkwardly placed physique. He sniffed the air and uttered an almost inaudible groan. He clicked his fingers. A summons.

The coroner’s assistants entered. The awkward body, it was no longer mine. I couldn’t claim it as my own, despite how hard I wished to reenter it and reassume my depressing life. The corporeal world seemed so cosy now, closeted, safe.

How can I explain the feelings of a man who sees his 25-year old corpse dragged out by the arms and legs. That his heart flutters between childlike desperation and adult indignity?

My 6-foot frame was too much for the coroner’s assistants. They took little care avoiding corners and furniture. two more book piles tumbled like mini-Babel towers. Sheaves of notes and annotations were caught under my bulk as they dragged it to the street. I took exactly seven knocks to the head, three to the chin, and one to the groin, before being unceremoniously heaved onto a wagon and covered with a black sheet.

As the cart shuffled down Great Pulteney Street I hesitated, unsure whether to follow my old self or remain with my treasures. I glanced briefly at all these cherished possessions, most of which I could no longer touch. My beloved Turkish inkpot, my scattered verses, and of course, my collection of naughty sketches acquired on the road in France, a couple of which I myself had commissioned.

I trudged over to the tomes of titillation, which I stored for easy access in a box just under the bed. The wooden box inched slowly along the floor, but it was only with immense effort that I slid it halfway out. It wouldn’t budge an inch further. The eyes of a Flemish courtesan winked at me, her blond tresses dancing, and I felt my nether regions swell familiarly. The primal urge was still functional.

However, I could no longer take my brute strength for granted. Solid objects proved elusive. Yet here I stood, on a solid floor. Why could I still stand on the ground, yet not drag a box? I reached for a half finished sheet of paper. My fingers passed through it, although there was a slight tickling sensation as they did so.

Holding the quill between thumb and forefinger, I performed a couple of the pen tricks employed whenever I needed to think. A strange tranquil light emanated from the tip of the quill, as if it were some Merlinesque wand. With the absurdity of the situation I felt an incredible urge to laugh like Lord Ruthven the Byronic vampire.

I assumed my best wizard pose, imitating mad Shelley. But no magical effect issued from the quill. However, if this feather-pen was the only thing of mine I could still touch, then it was my only thing left.

Perhaps the reasons for the above strange associations would become clearer later. I patiently calmed myself, and started picking at my other belongings. To my surprise, I could quite easily lift my heavy leather-bound version of Paradise Lost, but a thin folio of Romeo and Juliet slipped easily between my eager fingers. Life, or death, was a game now, or a test. And this quill, it seemed: my only item of inventory.

I attached it to my breast pocket. My clothes still fitted perfectly. They were tailor made due to my above average height. I would try tomorrow to change them. I hurried after the dead-man’s cart. A final glance at my window sent a pit of shame to my stomach. What would the coroner conclude? That I killed myself? Or would he deduce, more correctly, that I had been experimenting, self-medicating?

True, I’d been reckless. During my last supper, I’d confided to my fellow lodger at dinner, when he saw me so pale, that I was working on a ground-breaking experiment. Through the use of chemical intermediaries, my aim had been to create a means of glimpsing other realities and tap into the great beyond in search of the entities that caused me such distress in my dreams, and briefly upon waking. But In searching for a gateway to the afterlife I’d succeeded in opening the door to the next world, but unfortunately it had shut firmly behind me.

As a doctor I was familiar with more than a few mind-altering substances. This was the real reason Lord Byron had originally employed me. I make no bones about this. It was to mix his opium and obtain whatever other mind-altering substances were in vogue. I suppose, without these, there never would have been a Lord Ruthven or a Dr Frankenstein!

I trudged down the dusty road, patting my quill, head anxiously popping left and right for signs of recognition. None came. This time my speed was surprisingly swift, and in no time I caught up with the wagon. Things seemed to slow around me. And as I approached my body, I resynchronised! I hadn’t the faintest idea what could be gleaned from this, if anything. All I could conclude was that proximity to my decaying corpse affected the passage of time.

My father was already waiting when the wagon arrived, yet I could find no explanation for how he had overtaken us on the way here. The order of events, perhaps, were remixed in this dimension.

“I expect the utmost professionalism,” Gaetano warned the coroner.
“I assure you, we are very thorough. So far, nothing indicates foul play. This can only mean…” The Coroner hesitated.
“Mean what?” Gaetano’s tone implied the man before him had to choose his words wisely.

I gathered quickly that father was doing his utmost to protect his and the family’s privacy, dignity, and reputation, which my careless morbidity had placed under the microscope.

“To all intensive purposes,” the coroner looked askance, “It appears that Mr John Polidori,” he hesitated, “your son…”

Gaetano blinked meaningfully.

The coroner patted his forehead with a napkin from his back pocket, “The deceased expired due to natural causes.”

“I expect to see this writ in the published report, word for word.”

The coroner nodded. My father left without another utterance. He would never mention my name again, and forbade mention of me by my anyone. I resolved not to follow him. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if I ever looked him in the eye once, and I cannot remember him ever smiling, at me least.

“Died by the visitation of God.” This is what was published in the New Times on 11 September, 1821.

Accurate enough. But I’d received no visitation from the Almighty. No tunnel with soft guiding light. No welcoming committee from friends and family. But neither had a man in a torn black velvet cloak with a rusty sickle beckoned me with bony finger, nor had a deep fissure opened below my feet to swallow my sinful soul into the so-called infernal regions. I reflected on the poetical quality of my thoughts, desperately wanting to write them down. But I yet needed something to write on. Nothing would stop me from writing. I would return to tablet and chisel if I had to.

I slid my only possession out my coat pocket and wrote a note-to-self on my palm. “Acquire writing paper.”

To be continued