Orpheus and the Pearl & Nevermore Read online

  Orpheus and the Pearl

  Kim Paffenroth

  Nevermore, or The Feast of Flesh

  David Dunwoody

  Orpheus and the Pearl © 2010 Kim Paffenroth

  Originally published by Magus Press 2008

  Nevermore, or Feast of Flesh © 2010 David Dunwoody

  Cover & Interior Design by Jodi Lee © 2010 Belfire Press

  Edited by Jodi Lee

  ISBN: 978-1-926912-05-9

  Multi-Format Ebook/Digital Download

  Smashwords Edition

  A catalogue record for this title is available from the

  National Library of Canada.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to place, person or event is strictly coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Belfire Press -- http://www.belfirepress.com

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  * * *

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  from Kim Paffenroth

  Orpheus and the Pearl

  Acknowledgments

  from David Dunwoody

  Nevermore

  or The Feast of Flesh

  About the Authors

  * * *

  Orpheus and the Pearl

  Acknowledgments

  Kim Paffenroth

  Extensive, detailed comments on and critiques of this story were generously offered by Dr. Marylu Hill. She did so as I progressed in the writing, so I could work on many of the details of the time period. Dr. Dan Morehead, a practicing psychiatrist, offered comments on the clinical aspects of treatment. The story is much more accurate and believable as a result of their work, for which I can't be thankful enough. Dr. Robert Kennedy looked over the final product and offered his insights and encouragement, as he has on many of my previous works. Louise Bohmer gave the manuscript a thorough copy edit, as well as promoting it constantly and enthusiastically since then, for which she has all my appreciation and thanks.

  For those who are interested in the background of this story and how it relates to my other job as a professor of religious studies, I think you will notice that there is much less overtly Christian influence in this story than in my other works. As I have looked back on it, I have been surprised that it is in fact my most overtly Platonist piece of writing, though I think elements of the climax go beyond that worldview, and may even overturn and undermine it. (I still await the trenchant final analysis of Dr. Philip Cary on this issue.) But, now I'm talking like a professor or a pedant: real beauty overcomes such distinctions and such rationalizations, and I hope you find something beautiful in these pages.

  Kim Paffenroth

  Cornwall on Hudson, NY

  April 2009

  * * *

  Orpheus and the Pearl

  Catherine stepped off the train onto the platform of the Worcester station after an uneventful ride from Boston. She had been instructed that someone would meet her there, and immediately a large, severe-looking man approached her. He was a towering bulk dressed in a plain black suit that could not have been comfortable on such a warm, spring day. Catherine noticed from under the brim of her hat that his face appeared to have but one impassive expression, for it registered neither interest nor surprise at seeing her, neither friendliness nor hostility as he strode up to her. Catherine tried to estimate his age relative to her own thirty-four years, but his rugged, immobile features were of such a kind that he could have been the same age as she or much older.

  "Dr. MacGuire," he said slowly and distinctly in a voice that was as free of intent or emotion as his face. There was not even the slight rise at the end that would indicate the usual interrogative tone in such a greeting; it was as though he were rather telling her name, or saying it for no reason at all.

  "Mr. Romwald?" She had been given the name and description of the man who would be picking her up at the station just the day before.

  Romwald almost imperceptibly nodded and deftly picked up her two large bags. She followed him to the doctor's automobile, a common sort of conveyance in Boston for some time, but only appearing in significant numbers this far out in the country after the Great War.

  On the bumpy ride to the doctor's large estate, Catherine again reflected back on the odd events that had brought her here, and wondered what further surprises were in store. Two days before, out of nowhere, a young assistant had called her away from some rather pointless research numbers, to speak with her research director. The senior professor explained that he had just spoken on the telephone with the very famous Dr. Wallston. All her director could say was that she was to go to the doctor's estate outside Worcester, but offered no further details of what she was to do there or how long she would stay. While it certainly gladdened her immensely to get away from the deadly dull research that was forced on her by senior faculty who lacked imagination, creativity, or even competency, the whole thing smacked of melodrama and intrigue.

  Catherine forcefully expelled her breath to blow some stray red locks from in front of her nose, and sourly reflected that both melodrama and intrigue almost inevitably meant that yet another of the old lechers, with whom she was forced to work, was going to try clumsily and disgustingly to get under all those folds of cloth around her middle and see if the carpet matched the curtains. That was how one of them had so crudely put it to her during a pawing session from which she had barely managed to extricate herself, an escape that probably had doomed her to many more years of research drudgery rather than her own appointment and work.

  But, she had to admit, all her cynicism and bitter disappointments notwithstanding, Dr. Wallston was not the typical faculty, even if he had some reputation as a Lothario. Not only did he lack nothing in competence, he was one of the most brilliant men of his age. His work on the nervous systems of both primates and humans was nothing short of revolutionary, and there had been steady talk of a Nobel throughout the second decade of the new century. But last year he had suddenly left public life to retreat to his estate and care for his ailing wife, who had subsequently died. There were then constant rumors that he would soon return to his brilliant work, but so far, he had remained in seclusion in this western redoubt, whose gates the car was now passing through, bouncing along between rows of the most enormous sycamores Catherine had ever seen. Past these, the road wound through rolling fields, around the side of a large hill, and then approached the main house, which sat atop a lower hill, overlooking a lake. Except for the automobile, they could have been in the American or European countryside in the previous century, or even the one before. Raised in the city, Catherine was enthralled by the bucolic setting, and silently cursed herself for all the beautiful spring days she had spent sterilely sequestered in laboratories and libraries.

  Romwald ushered her out of the automobile and into the large and elegant home. He didn't offer her anything in the way of rest or refreshment, instead moving directly to the door of the doctor's study, while she stood in the foyer and quickly straightened herself somewhat. He opened the study door, and Catherine stepped into the room as confidently and professionally as she could. The door closed behind her noiselessly.

  Dr. Wallston had already stood and was now coming around his desk to greet her. He was still a relatively young man, tall and im
pressive, with a full mane of black, wavy hair, grey only around the temples. The rumors of his many trysts seemed much more believable now in person.

  "Dr. MacGuire, thank you so much for coming, and on such short notice," he said as he shook her hand.

  "Dr. Wallston, I was honored to receive your invitation, of course." She was glad and put somewhat more at ease by his use of her title. She could expect it of a servant like Romwald, naturally, but physicians much further down the pecking order than Dr. Wallston had seen fit to call her "Miss" MacGuire, or worse, by her first name. She could feel her jaw clench, even now, when she thought of how some had even resorted to "Cathy" or "Kitty," usually with a leer, as though she were some pretty, little Irish whore in Scollay Square, instead of the educated expert she had sacrificed so much of her life to become.

  "Please, sit." He returned to his chair behind his desk, folded his hands and sighed. "Dr. MacGuire, I need your help in a most grave matter, a matter that has confounded me now for several months. You come highly recommended, and I believe that in this matter especially, your unique perspective as a woman may also be of crucial importance to its successful resolution."

  "Dr. Wallston, I'm flattered at your confidence, and grateful that my director saw fit to recommend me for such a difficult assignment." The last part was a shameless lie. Her director was a total incompetent who seldom hid his disdain for her, but enjoyed gawking at her enough to keep her around. Even better, he had so far restrained any further attentions to only occasionally touching her bosom or buttocks---even having what he must've considered the 'decency' to make these tactile intrusions seem accidental---so Catherine tolerated her servitude with him. Catherine didn't let even the tiniest muscle on her face betray her untruth to Dr. Wallston, nor give away the sudden, wrenching twist in her stomach at the mention of how her gender might be important.

  She knew all too well how important it was to men that she was physically different than they, even if she were their intellectual equal or superior in every way. "But I really can't imagine what medical problem I could assist with, if it escapes your knowledge and skill." This statement, on the other hand, was completely true; sometimes toadying was also sincere, and this made it a hundred times less demeaning.

  He looked at her steadily, his head slightly tilted down. Unlike most men his age, he did not wear eyeglasses, and Catherine had to catch herself and blink, to break her reverie on how beautiful were his hazel eyes -- so full, not just of intellect, but of emotion. And right now, that emotion was one of an oppressive sadness and resignation. "No, you flatter me, Dr. MacGuire. It is true that I have much knowledge of many physical afflictions and how to cure or treat them, more knowledge than most any man of our age, more knowledge than any man has ever before had. Perhaps, I fear, more knowledge than any man should have." He sighed again. "What a strange thought. Do you think that possible... to have too much knowledge of how to cure our afflictions?"

  Catherine sat, unblinking, for a moment. The question was as odd and unexpected as this whole errand. "We are doctors. We have taken an oath to do good and never harm to our patients."

  "Quite so. My point exactly. What if there are afflictions that are for our own good?"

  Catherine craned her neck forward. She sincerely hoped the conversation did not get any odder. Though many would call her choice of profession the height of impracticality, she was, at her core, an imminently commonsensical and anchored person, not given to such metaphysical flights as the doctor now seemed to be proposing. "I don't think that is for us to judge, doctor. If most people in our society deem something a mental or physical evil, then we must do everything to alleviate it."

  He nodded and frowned slightly. "Yes, I was afraid you would say that. Afraid, because it is by following that line of reasoning that I have reached this current impasse. I alleviated what most people agree is a very great affliction, perhaps the greatest evil of all, only to find that the cure brought a host of other pains and sorrows. And that is why I have called you, for these new forms of pain are not purely physical, and therefore they are far outside my expertise."

  "They are of a mental nature then, doctor?"

  "Yes, though I believe you sell your expertise short, doctor. I asked you to come here because you have studied psychology, especially psychoanalysis and the new theories and practices of Dr. Freud, theories with which I am unfamiliar, for illnesses far different than I am prepared to cure or even acknowledge. I can repair most any injury to the nerves or the brain, and therefore, so far as we know, most any damage to the mind. A stroke, paralysis, memory loss, epilepsy, seizures -- I've cured all of them, even the most severe cases, with surgery and drugs. No, Dr. MacGuire, I fear the problems I now face are matters of the soul, and your science claims, after all, to heal the soul. Unless you think that too extravagant a claim? Do you not believe in the soul?"

  The conversation had now gone from being odder than Catherine had imagined it might be, all the way to being odder than Catherine could imagine a conversation being. "I'm afraid I don't understand, doctor. If you have a patient who requires psychoanalysis, I will do everything I can to help that person. I am quite sure, however, that matters of religion or belief have no place in this discussion or in the treatment of disease."

  Dr. Wallston smiled ever so slightly at her, those beautiful, sad eyes still fixed on hers, and she felt the tickling on the back of her neck that one gets at such approval and interest when they are welcomed and mutual. "Well, there was a time when I surely would've agreed with you on religion's irrelevance, but now I am not so sure." He paused, then slid a sheaf of papers across the desk toward her and handed her a Waterman pen. "Regardless of religion's relevance, however, I am afraid that the relevance of the merely human law is beyond debate or discussion. This is your contract for your services here. I think you will find it generous, and, despite the necessary legal language, fairly straightforward."

  Catherine picked up the papers and skimmed them as quickly as she could. As the doctor had said, it was fairly straightforward, in that the stipulations were few and clearly stated. The content of those stipulations, however, surprised her. The main point seemed to be that she was never, under pain of law, to divulge or discuss what she saw or did at the estate. She didn't know what to make of this, but she didn't know how to ask about it, either. And the far greater surprise was the matter of payment. She looked up at the doctor from behind the papers. "Doctor, there must be some mistake with the contracted payment. Perhaps a simple matter of an extra zero?"

  He smiled a little more broadly at her. "No, Dr. MacGuire. If you can, in fact, help me with this patient, then that will be a small enough sum, weighed against the nearly priceless benefit you will have brought to me." After she signed, he took back the papers and stood. "It is, however, late in the afternoon, and I have several other things to which I must attend. Romwald will show you to your room in the west wing and bring you dinner later. Please feel free to go about the grounds in front of the house, but I must ask you not to enter the gardens behind the house, nor the main building, until tomorrow morning after nine o'clock." He walked over to the door and opened it for her. "Thank you again for coming, Dr. MacGuire."

  Romwald wordlessly showed her to the west wing of the house, which was separated from the main building by a breezeway. The separate wing consisted of two small bedrooms, a bathroom, and a sitting room. All the rooms were open and her bags were in the sitting room, as though she were free to choose either or both of the bedrooms for her stay. The arrangement soothed her somewhat frayed nerves after the odd interview, for it would make the living arrangements much less awkward and scandalous, as she would have a good deal of privacy. And if she were going to practice psychoanalysis on someone, she would probably be here for quite some time. Despite most people's imagination that one simply lay down and talked about one's mother for a few minutes, then walked out a new person, the reality was a much longer, messier, and more ambiguous process. She wondered if even Dr.
Wallston, as knowledgeable as he was, knew how much it would entail.

  After settling her possessions into one of the bedrooms, Catherine walked out through the breezeway. Taking two steps towards the back of the house, she saw Romwald walking out from the back of the house into the garden, carrying a tray with tea service, so she retreated toward the front of the house, as per the doctor's warning. She went back down the drive to the bottom of the hill then followed a small stream there, through sycamores somewhat smaller than those at the gate. She sat under one of them and enjoyed the freedom and beauty of this strange, almost otherworldly place into which she had so suddenly and unexpectedly landed.

  A while later she made her way back to the house and found dinner waiting for her in the sitting room. Since Romwald was the only servant she had seen or even heard mentioned at the estate, she supposed he had prepared it as well as brought it, and she judged him an exceptional cook. The fish chowder, pork chops with rosemary, and glazed carrots were some of the most savory things Catherine had tasted in ages, though living alone was not conducive to doing much in the way of creative cooking, and she certainly didn't have the money to dine out. She thought it rather rude to leave the tray and dishes there in the sitting room, but again she heeded the doctor's warning not to enter the main building. After some ablutions in the bathroom she changed into nightclothes.