Authors: Bethany Griffin
T
he ivy I planted has grown everywhere, over everything. It covers the base of the house, scrabbling its way upward. Something living and green can survive on the great expanse of ancient rock and mortar. A few stones have finally crumbled. Plants are stronger than they look.
Roderick stands beside me up on the widow's walk, his hand on my elbow. We look out over the grounds and the dead forest without speaking, for what seems like an hour. I enjoy the silence of his companionship.
“Do you ever think of jumping?” Roderick asks.
“I promised Father I wouldn't.”
“I sometimes think of ending it. Poison? Not jumping.” He won't look at me, ashamed of what he is saying. “You're stronger than me, Madeline. You've had these fits for years. Mine've only just begun, and I don't know how I can bear them. How did Father tolerate this?”
“What about Mother?” He knew her better, after all.
“Mother channeled her pain into cruelty, but she died young. Father was older.”
Yes. He would have to be. He waited for Honoria, then Lisbeth, and finally their younger sister. Was she happy with her choice? She seemed to scorn Father, but she loved Roderick. How did Father feel about her? I know he loved me, when he was aware. Did he recognize me as he wandered the house, irrelevant and mad? Did he watch me? Did he remember?
I don't think that Roderick could fade in the same way, but if he does, if I can't muster my strength, will the house win?
“I wish our parents had left us some clues. Some message or record that we could understand. I guess they knew it wouldn't matter. We won't live long enough for it to matter.”
“Don't say that.”
“I like to face the truth. Maybe we should summon a priest to bless us, or pray for us.”
“We are Ushers.”
“They won't come?”
“They won't come.”
We stand together, hand in hand.
D
earest Roderick,
Still no word from you? Are you unwell? Please write to me. I am very concerned. If I don't hear back from you, I may be compelled to visit your home to check on you
.
Noah
Â
I clutch the letter.
Would Roderick's friend really visit us? What if he came through our front door? What if he said hello to me, if he smiled at me? Would he recognize me from when we met before? Would I be able to have a conversation with him?
None of that is important, but Noah could divert Roderick's attention. His company could help Roderick feel better. We could declare a holiday and send the servants away. And he could take Roderick camping on the grounds, like before.
The selfish part of me wonders . . . is there any possibility that he might look upon me with affection?
Does he like girls who are ethereal, fragile? Who are doomed?
I
sit alone in what's left of my garden, leaving Roderick to his music. He isn't aware of me.
The garden is haunted now. I cannot help but remember Emily's hand, her fingers stretching up through the earth, as if she was trying to reach me.
Faltering footsteps sound behind me. They drag, as if the person who is walking toward me can barely move. A twig snaps. I'm afraid to turn and look. . . . Could it be Emily, back from the dead? Or Dr. Winston?
But when I do, it's only a little girl.
We consider each other.
Her hair is very pale.
She takes another step toward me, and I see that she is lame, that her foot drags behind her. She's an Usher. The house is drawing them in, the bastard lines. Like my father's sister, the one who was chained in the attic, it has found me wanting.
This child is so delicate, with her twisted leg. Tiny and frail. Roderick would kill to protect her. She couldn't replace me, though. Not with Roderick. I wonder if my father's twin, the one I'm named for, had the same thought.
The child watches me and does not smile.
R
oderick has not left the house in days, and he rarely leaves the suite of rooms that we share. He keeps painting pictures of the house, writing odes to it. “The Haunted Castle.” He plays his guitar and sings to the house. The house is very pleased. So happy to have a new favorite, and one that appreciates it so much.
“Tell me of your school friend,” I beg. This is the only subject, besides the house, that he ever wants to speak of.
He is staring into space, strumming his guitar. The sounds that come from it are melancholy and beautiful.
He stops playing and bows his head.
“I cried. Every day. For you, Madeline. I also cried for Mother and Father, and for the house, but mostly I cried for you. The other boys taunted me and teased me. My first roommate complained that he couldn't get any rest because of my crying and asked for me to be moved to another room.” Roderick smiles, but it doesn't reach his violet eyes.
“And then
he
came. He was a new student, from a well-known and prosperous family. I knew they were putting him in my room, because his trunks were delivered, and I got nervous; I didn't want my miserable loneliness to be invaded by another bully.
“After lessons, we were allowed to play in the courtyard, and I was sitting alone, reading a book, when he arrived. The other boys crowded around him and vied for his attention, but then he noticed me.
“He stared at me and then looked away. We didn't speak. All through dinner I would find him looking at me. I know that he asked the others who I was, because one of the boys said, âOh, that's Roderick Usher. He's crazy.' And another said, âHe's to be your roommate,' and that's when he walked over to me and introduced himself.
“âYou don't have to talk to Usher. If you ignore him, he'll fade away. Or cry,' one of the others called.
“The other boys started to chatter about how they could make me cry. But he stood in front of them, pushed them back.
“âLeave him alone,' he said. âHe's going to be my friend.'
“And from that moment, we were. We were always together, so much so that they whispered about it.”
“What is he like?” I ask.
“He's brave,” Roderick says. “And heroic.”
Yes. That's what we need. That's what Roderick needs.
I
pace from the fireplace to the grandfather clock and then back again, across the dark floor. I have to summon Roderick's friend, Noah. I must. He's our only hope. Roderick is going mad. He won't leave the house. If I could get him to go outside for just a day, for just an hour, I could do what I must. But I cannot hurt him.
I study Roderick's handwriting. Why must I find this so difficult? Hours upon hours, while my brother sits staring at the mosaic tiles of the floor, crooning to them, screaming at them, I practice forging his hand. At last, though the sinews in my hand and my wrist are tired and stretched, I can do it.
I give one of the maids a gold coin to post the letter for me. And so, it is done. I wait.
I
watch his arrival from the widow's walk. His horse is a deep brown, and he rides it well. He comes through the dead forest and stops. I lean forward, intent, willing him to fight off his initial horror. To continue. The horse is skittish. He pats her neck, comforting her. The horse tries to back up, but he won't let her. He dismounts and stands, looking up at the house.
He is too far away, and I cannot tell if he has closed his eyes, but he does not avert his face.
I can barely breathe. If he rides away, will all be lost?
Noah gets back on his horse. His back is stooped, and he looks defeated. He's leaving; he's abandoning friendship.
I twist the fabric of my skirt, too nervous to breathe.
But no, he's riding forward. He doesn't stop again. He rides through the marshy area before the tarn, across the causeway.
He's entering the house.
I hurry inside, to Roderick.
“We have a visitor,” I tell him. “I think it's your friend from school.”
Roderick starts. I can tell he's excited, his eyes are shiningâbut instead of rushing downstairs to greet his friend, he takes a seat in his studio. “The servants will bring him up, Madeline. That's how these things are done.”
“But he's come so far. . . .”
“Have the servants bring wine.”
I ignore him and hurry down the side stairs. I must watch and see what happens. The groom has taken his horse to stable it next to Roderick's. A servant is leading him up the stairs. Dr. Paul stands in the shadows. Roderick's friend stops to greet the doctor, but Dr. Paul squints at him with an unpleasant expression and then moves on.
Roderick's friend stops several times to admire paintings and tapestries, but he looks overwhelmed, and a bit frightened. Walking into this house took an impressive amount of courage. I will try my hardest to protect him, to be sure he walks away from here alive. With Roderick.
Now they are sitting, fair head and dark head close together. Painting. Perhaps Roderick will be inspired to paint something besides the house. He is pleased to see his friend, but ashamed of his own debilitation. Roderick has become more ethereal, more fragile.
“This is Noah,” Roderick says. And then, turning, “And this is my dear sister, Madeline.”
He looks up, and a smile lights up his face. Though I meant to be serious and stately, meeting him here for the first time, I find myself returning his magnificent smile.
T
he curtains rustle, silken and sad. Noah stands in front of the window.
“I feel as if I know you, Roderick spoke of you so often. He cried for you in his sleep.” He smiles when he says this, so it doesn't seem to have annoyed him. I return his smile. We both care for Roderick. It makes me feel close to him, though we've only just met. “You know, I almost passed right by the house. I kept staring up at it; I could see a sort of blur in the distance, but no house. Then, all of a sudden, I saw all the plants, the lichen and ivy, and under that, the house. Roderick says you nurtured those plants.”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn't have made it here without them. My first impression of you as a little pixie, some kind of nature spirit, was exactly right.”
He means when we met at the coach platform. It seems so long ago.
“You knew me?” My voice sounds breathless. I try to breathe normally, but it's difficult with him so near. The way he inspects our art and exclaims over the antique carpets . . . he makes everything seem more interesting. When his eyes light on some architectural wonder, a part of me is envious of the colonnade, the graciously arched gothic windows. Some part of me wants his gaze to linger on me.
“Of course I did, but I didn't want to frighten you away. You seemed on the verge of running, and I thought anonymity might be comforting.”
I sip my wine. So that I don't have to look at him. So he won't see me blush.
“I came because I was worried about Roderick, but I also had another reason,” he says. My heart flutters. “My kinswoman, my cousin, who came to this part of the country, has not been heard from.”
I picture Emily, with her dark hair and laughing eyes.
He studies my face, my demeanor, and he knows.
“Something happened to her.” His voice is sad, but not surprised. “It was that villain she thought she was in love with, wasn't it?”
I nod. “I hit him with a sledgehammer, but he crawled away. For all I know, he's still alive somewhere.”
He stares across the room, lost in some dark reverie. “A sledgehammer?” I'm not sure if he believes me. His tone as he asks the question is neutral.
Do I dare confide in him? It would be nice for someone to know the full story. Otherwise, no one will ever know. Not Roderick, who refuses to truly listen, not anyone. It will be lost, like Lisbeth's disintegrating journal.
“I had hoped that there was a chance for Emily. My parents washed their hands of her, scandalized that she would follow Winston across the country. They felt it was desperate and unladylike. But I understood. People do odd things for love.”
“And you loved Emily?” My hair falls forward, and I let it conceal my face. It makes speaking candidly easier.
He looks up, his eyes deep and filled with remorse.
“Like a sister. At least that's what I thought, until I heard Roderick's voice change when he spoke of you. Such adoration.”
I feel my face flushing.
“I'm sure you loved her dearly,” I say at the same time that he reaches forward to gently push back the errant lock of hair that I've been hiding behind. “She was easy to love,” I finishâbreathless because speaking of her is painful, and because his fingers against my forehead are sure and soothing.
“She was,” he agrees. “And I didn't protect her. Didn't even know she needed protecting.”
I wait to see if he will speak of vengeance, but he stares off across the room, obviously upset. Still, he doesn't mention her again.
“I am determined to do what I can for Roderick. He is alive, so I can still save him.”
Roderick is lucky to have such a friend. I don't want him to think that we sacrificed Emily.
“She was my friend,” I tell him.