Aaaiiieee!

The Red Spectacles

“The dead woman lay in her first night’s grave,

And twilight fell from the clouds’ concave,

And those she had asked to forgive forgave.”

—Thomas Hardy

“This is Father Venn,” said Father Clare, clearing his voice thereafter as if to expunge the remnants of the name from his throat. Or so thought Father Venn, listening to him.

“Pleased to meet you, Father,” smiled Lucetta Fawley, the hostess of the gathering. “Are you new to our church?”

“I am visiting, dear lady,” Venn smiled in return. He took the woman’s delicate hand briefly. “Father Clare was good enough to invite me to join him today as his guest. But of course, when he told me about your efforts to raise funds for this cause, I was most enthusiastic to attend.”

“Well I am delighted that you could join us, Father. Perhaps you will be able to return when Father Clare gives the cemetery its blessing.”

“Perhaps I will return, then.” Venn pivoted, hands clasped behind his back, to nod amicably at the older priest…who did not meet his eyes.

“We will be marking each grave with a humble stone bearing the name of the deceased, and the dates of their birth and death,” Mrs. Fawley explained. “Are you familiar with the cemetery? It’s a potter’s field; very sad. All indigents, unbaptized infants, patients from the sanitarium. Forgotten people. Even prisoners who were executed will receive the same benevolence.”

“You are a good soul, Mrs. Fawley. There are too many potter’s fields in this world, and each should have one patron saint such as yourself.”

Lucetta Fawley blushed. “Thank you, Father.”

Venn knew that the woman blushed not only because the compliment came from a man of God, but because the man, however celibate, was a handsome one. He found women were attracted to him in a nervous way that struck him as either charming or pathetic, depending on his mood. He was young, slender, with hair dark as his garb and skin white as his collar. It no doubt did not disturb the good woman that on this summer-gilt afternoon he wore his odd spectacles with their wire frames and their circular lenses made of a deep red glass.

Another arriving guest required that the hostess divert her attentions from the priests, and Father Venn told his companion, “You see, Michael? You needn’t have worried. Mrs. Fawley did not resent that I accompanied you at all.”

Clare would still not meet the other’s eyes. “It was wrong of you to force yourself upon her. And me…”

“I have my work.”

“But you won’t tell me what this work is, will you?”

“It’s my work, Michael. It needn’t concern you.”

“And from where do you receive your orders, Venn? God? Or a higher authority, in your mind—yourself?”

Venn now stepped into the older priest’s view. In silhouette, with the lowering sun making a corona around his head, his eyes could not be read behind their dark glasses, which looked now like skull sockets in his white face. “That is a cruel joke, Michael, and in poor taste.”

Clare did not continue. He had heard odd things about his fellow priest. Some of them unnerving. He moved past the younger man toward the house. “I’m going to join the other guests, now,” he muttered.

“Enjoy yourself,” Venn told him, watching him go. He then turned toward the knots of people laughing and conversing about the garden and grounds, and drifted toward them like a cloud’s shadow across the green lawns.

* * *

The woman Lucetta brought from the house to meet Father Venn was remarkable in two ways. For one, she was beautiful. Though small in stature, she was shapely, and her dress of Jersey cloth clung tightly to her waist and arms. As was the popular style in this year of 1883, the back fullness of the dress was lower than previously fashionable, but still given bulk by cascades of ruffles. Mrs. Fawley’s dress, more formal, swept a train of white ruffles behind her across the grass. The other woman’s dress was largely black.

Her hair, a thick bundle above her head, was as dark as his own, her flesh as pale. Her eyes were as large in her face as those of a child; a dark-eyed, solemn child. Her mouth was small, but he couldn’t decide yet if it were merely composed and dignified or a sullen pout.

The other remarkable thing about the woman approaching him was that she had wings, as sleek and tapered as those of a falcon, sprouting from her back.

“Father,” Lucetta Fawley said, “you told me that I was the patron saint of our little potter’s field, but I couldn’t take that credit alone. Please let me introduce to you my friend whose idea this benefit truly was—Emma Garland.”

Venn took the woman’s slim, cool hand. “Delighted. So you, then, are also a guardian angel, Mrs. Garland.”

A small smile flickered upon the young woman’s lips, which Venn could no better read at this close distance. “It’s the Christian thing to do, Father.”

“Oh, please excuse me a moment, would you?” Mrs. Fawley fretted, noticing the arrival of yet another new group of guests.

“Certainly,” Venn told her. “So, Mrs. Garland, what inspired you to suggest this fund- raising event to your friend Mrs. Fawley?”

“We’re both widows, Father. The mutual loss of our husbands makes us sensitive to the condition of these poor indigents.”

Her wings were lovely in themselves, and made her exquisite doll-like beauty all the more striking. She was like some dark angel made to surmount a madman’s Christmas tree. The wings were black, but shaded to silver at their tips. Or so he guessed, through his red lenses.

Without his spectacles, however, he would not be able to tell the true colors of those wings…for without them, he would not be able to see the wings at all.

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss. When did your husband pass away?”

“Oh, it was long ago, I’m afraid.”

“How dreadful. And yet you’re still so young. You must not have had much time together. A tragedy.”

For several moments, the woman only gazed up at him, her eyes as impossible to read as her lips. His eyeglasses could reveal those wings sprouting through the material of her gown, but could not reveal to him the thoughts behind her features.

“I’m new to this town, Father, but I’ve not seen you before. Are you a newcomer yourself?”

“I’m from Candleton. And yourself?”

“Summerland.”

“I’m not sure I’ve been there.”

She smiled. “It’s quite far from here.”

“I see.”

“I’ve been to Candleton. That was where that cathedral burned so badly last year, wasn’t it? Oh dear—that wasn’t your church…”

“Indeed, I’m afraid it was.”

“Oh no…”

“Yes, it was quite mysterious. Some say there are dark forces at work in Candleton. Two of my fellow priests died in the fire.”

“How terrible. Yes, I’ve heard some say your town is thoroughly haunted. And wasn’t the cathedral built upon one of those ancient straight paths? I’ve seen the standing stones in your town…”

“It’s a very old town.”

“Was the cathedral ruined beyond repair?”

“I’m afraid so. But you see my spectacles?”

“Yes. They’re interesting.”

“I had them made from the stained glass of one of our cathedral windows. It was a powerful place, our church. I thought seeing through this glass would lend extra vision to my sight.” He smiled at his own joke.

“And does it?”

“Yes. It does just that. So, Mrs. Garland…when was it you last visited Candleton?”

“Oh…really I don’t recall. It was some time ago. The cathedral was standing the last I saw it.”

They had begun to stroll together, toward the garden. Venn noticed that, though the air was lush and still, a continuous soft breeze seemed to ruffle the dark feathers of the woman’s wings.

“Have you ever raised funds to have other potter’s fields blessed and their plots properly marked?”

“No. This is the first time.”

“And why this one?”

Emma Garland stopped and turned to face the priest. Even smiling, her true expression lay hidden and mysterious to him. “You ask quite a lot of questions, Father.”

He feigned a look of distress. “Do I? I’m terribly sorry. I don’t mean to be rude…”

She began to lead him toward the garden again. The sun was burning its way below the edge of the earth, and the garden was blue with the gloom of summer evening. Still, the priest did not remove his eyeglasses.

“Don’t apologize, Father. I enjoy your com- pany…”

The garden as they moved through it had been abandoned but for a young couple they startled, seated on a bench in an amorous embrace. Straightening themselves, they rose and departed briskly. Watching them go, Emma Garland smiled. “To be young and in love again.”

“You’re still young, Mrs. Garland. Aren’t you?”

The woman lifted her eyes to his red lenses, the smile draining from her lips. “I’m not as young as I look. But you know that, Father Venn. Don’t your spectacles show me for what I am? Do they show me as a rotted corpse?”

“You’re quite lovely, to be honest.” Venn tried not to swallow the saliva that flooded his mouth. He didn’t want her to see his adam’s apple nervously shift.

“I died with my husband, Father. In 1829.”

“How did you know what my spectacles could do?”

“As you can see mysteries through them, Father, so can I. I can see your eyes through them.”

Venn wished that the sun would last a while longer. The red lenses made the garden purple and as dark as a garden at the bottom of the sea. And like some phosphorescent fish, the pale face of the woman before him seemed almost to glow luminous.

“When the cathedral was burning, I saw a winged figure through the window,” Venn told her. “I didn’t know if it were an angel come to lead our souls away, or a dark angel who had come to destroy us.”

“I can’t help you with that, Father. I wasn’t that angel.”

“Several months ago when I visited here I saw you in town, at a distance. In the company of Mrs. Fawley. And then when the good Father Clare told me of Mrs. Fawley’s party…”

“You came to destroy me. Thinking I destroyed your church.”

“What are you, if not a fallen angel? Why are you walking the earth?”

“Why are you walking the earth, Father?”

“I have a mission. To do good. To right wrongs.”

“As do I. Father Venn…though tonight I wear this lovely dress, and mingle with this lovely group of people, in my mortal life I was not so fortunate. My husband and I both lie in that potter’s field. Pinned to that unconsecrated ground as though we were both staked through the heart. All because we didn’t have a few words said over us by some man in black. And there are babies there, Father. All cursed to a limbo of endless waiting, all for want of a few drops on their brows. It’s cruel, Father Venn. The rules aren’t fair. Men make the rules. God is more compassionate than that, I think. But men’s rules are men’s rules and that’s how the game is played.”

“So what you want is to be released…”

“To be exorcized, Father. To have the demons of our unworthiness cast out. To be allowed the peace we have so long been denied. I’m not a fallen angel, Father. I was never permitted to rise.”

Laughter came distantly from the house, like the chatter of night insects, tiny and ephemeral. Though the woman’s anger was strong, Venn no longer feared her.

“Why did it take you so many years to arrange this blessing?”

“I was just released from my grave this year. I don’t understand the lapse. Perhaps God was busy and I had to wait my turn on His list. Perhaps He’d forgotten us, in our unhallowed corner. Perhaps it was a penance I had to pay for the sins of my life.”

Venn shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you. But let me help you. I’ll be here with Clare on that day. I’ll set you free. You and your husband, and all the others.” He gazed off into the murk of the garden. “Perhaps it was this I was meant to do all along, and not hunt for the demon that burned my cathedral, as I believed.”

“Maybe it was God Who burned your cathedral,” said Emma Garland. “You don’t seem to know Him any better than I.”

“I suppose not,” he murmured. After a moment he began to move away from the woman. “I’ll go now, Mrs. Garland. But I will be back—I promise you.”

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“When you put me to rest, will you then be able to rest, yourself?”

He smiled. “I do hope so.”

“I can see your eyes, Father. You know you died in that fire, also, don’t you?”

“Yes. I know that.”

“I just wanted to be sure you understood. So many ghosts don’t realize it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garland. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Thank you, Father Venn.”

“Forgive me for…not understanding you,” he said.

“Forgive me for my bitterness.”

“You are forgiven.”

The priest reached up to his face and removed his spectacles at last, folding them away. For the first time, he saw the lovely woman without her tapered black wings. He had wanted to see her this way. As if they both might pretend they were mortal again.

“Good night, Mrs. Garland,” he told her.

“Good night, Father,” she replied.