Honeymoon Phase

amount of mild-mannered bantering as compensation up-front. Always the adept improvisor, he decided just then that a slightly increased measure of whimsical collaboration, though seemingly counterproductive to his objective, would actually be the best strategy if the unfolding scenario necessitated it.

  “So, what do you say? Is my baby on board, or does she still need some time to set up the flaming hoops?”

  “You realize, of course, that you might lose your membership in The Guy Club for making your new wife lie here and listen to a bunch of sap-crap when you could conceivably make her do whatever you want, don't you?”

  “And you realize, of course, that you might lose your membership in The Girl Club for passing up a chance to let your new husband sweet-talk you on your honeymoon…don't you? I guess that makes us even.”

  “Touché.” The only time Marion conceded even a trivial debate was on rare occasions when the reward of accepting defeat outweighed that of achieving triumph, and hearing a sugar-coated take on her alleged destiny was as good a reason as any for unequivocal surrender. Besides, there was little she wouldn't do for Frank when it came right down to it, and, as far as she was able to extrapolate, he was asking her to do so little. Whereas appeals to her from a less familiar petitioner oftentimes entailed a copious amount of persuasive effort, she was at heart the type of woman who derived great pleasure from accommodating her significant other, even if that meant fulfilling her role in a mysteriously dubious rite to which said beloved had apparently attached an irrational level of significance. It seemed harmless enough on the surface, Marion figured, so why not entertain it…and, very likely, be entertained by it at the same time? “All right, Mr. Braid…your honeymoon wish is my command.”

  “Thank you.” Satisfied at having overcome what he regarded a moderate milestone at the very least, Frank leaned over and planted a gentle peck on Marion's succulent lips, then half-jokingly whisked an open palm downward from her brow to the tip of her nose, comically mimicking an eye-closing procedure he'd seen done to the deceased countless times in cliché-ridden classic films. His terse performance evoked yet another amiable smile from her, but, more importantly to Frank, it was the first step in deploying Marion to the dark, nebulous zone from whence she would soon embark on a surreal trek into the preternatural. While the interference he'd been forced to tactfully quell had been a trifle more daunting than predicted, he had the utmost faith that the worst now lay behind him…at least as far as the preparation of her journey's origin was concerned. “Now, where was I?”

  “I believe you were on the fence.” Marion advised with buoyant irreverence, peeking momentarily at Frank's visible yet silent disapproval, then quickly resuming her sleep-stance like a foiled child awake past her bedtime. “Sorry, honey.”

  “A white, picket fence.” Frank continued after much delay, graciously ignoring Marion's latest piece of corny commentary. “It'll protect our house, just as our house will protect you. Nothing will be able to touch you there, as its barrier is every bit as functional as it is adorning. You explore its perimeter at your leisure, smelling the lavender flowers that wreathe each of its posts, when you happen upon its sole avenue of ingress; a small gate with an elaborate latch that only you instinctively know how to disengage. You open it, securing it behind you after crossing into the yard, when you find beneath your feet a walkway made of earth-tone cobblestones, each of them differing slightly in smoothed shape and muted color from those directly adjacent. It cuts through a luxurious lawn of the deepest green; a perfectly manicured expanse of grass interrupted by the stout trunks of massive oaks, the leaves dangling from their branches casting dancing shadows as they sway in the gentle breeze. You meander down the shaded path–occasional rays of sunlight piercing the organic canopy overhead–when you suddenly find yourself confronted with a peculiar dwelling of uncertain design. Spacious beds of cornflowers, delphiniums, and foxgloves hide its foundation, wisteria-laden trellises obscure its outer walls, and dense lilac trees at every corner do their dazzling best to draw your full attention. Aside from its astounding floral accents, however, you find it to be a structure of stark mediocrity, exceptional only in how very unexceptional it is. It stands before you like a barren island in a sea of blue and violet; a blank canvas in dire need of artistic rescue from its own banality…and that's precisely the thing about it that compels you the most. Not only does it pose a creative challenge that begs to be addressed, but it also exudes an aura of mystery urgently imploring further investigation. Your curiosity unyielding, you advance toward its main entrance, resolved to evaluate the extent to which it could benefit from your aesthetic intervention…and be transformed–by you, and only you–from our house, to our home.”

  With the aid of twilight's final vestiges of vermilion radiance and the faint, fluttering glow that emanated from a stone hearth across the cabin's central chamber, Frank was able to discern a marked change in Marion's visage that denoted the onset of the trance-state he'd labored so intensively to actuate. It was as though the wakeful signals that normally cause subtle tensing of the facial muscles had ceased firing off in her brain, their absence transforming her appearance to that of an expressionless mask lacking any sign of sentient depth…and, like the antithesis of the veil of slumber that now enveloped her vulnerable mind and body, an equally all-encompassing cascade of invigorating satisfaction promptly washed over her well-spoken subjugator. He secretly delighted at each vague physiological manifestation of her subconscious surrender–from her deep, measured respiration to the slowed, rhythmic pulse on the side of her neck–but took precious little time to relish in them, as he knew that she'd only just traversed the threshold of where he needed her to be. If Frank's persistence wavered even in the slightest at that critical juncture, Marion's phantasmal destination, though very close at hand, might just as well have been forever-far away.

  “Before going inside, you turn for one final look at the amazing splendor of the encircling landscape–your intended glance becoming an enjoyably thorough scrutiny–when you come to the gradual realization that none of its picturesque features are quite as static as you'd thought them to be. Pigments shift in placid waves of alternating hues and intensities, flowers that were budded only moments before visibly burst into full-bloom…everything in your field of view brims with a botanic exuberance you'd never deem possible were you not witnessing it, yourself. It's a miraculous spectacle that becomes more lively the longer you luxuriate in it, imparting to you a bliss that few are fortunate enough to ever feel. Just then, it dawns on you that all you survey is but a reflection of your innermost emotions, the chameleon-like panorama changing fluidly with your every mood…its beauty feeding your captivation; your captivation, its beauty. The symbiosis that exists between your heart and your astonishing surroundings is ideal, absolute, and of an aspect that is now every much a part of you as your heart, itself.”

  Nothing short of a phenomenal sensory disturbance could have brought Marion back from the dreamy fringe by that point, but, given the wilderness setting's desolate peacefulness, a catastrophic event of sufficient magnitude had next to no chance of actually taking place. Any ambient stimulation that did manage to penetrate her severely diminished faculties was scant and sedative, acting only to intensify her stupor and nudge her further into the void. The erratic crackling of the fireplace, the intermittent creaking of wind-battered support beams overhead, the distant wails of native nocturnal fauna…while these things could hardly be considered individually metronomic, they were, in fact, collectively harmonious. Like most, Marion had a primal appreciation for them–as one is sometimes apt to be pacified by a thunderstorm–, so they served as an ideally somnolent score of sorts; the perfect accompaniment to Frank's relentless onslaught of tranquilizing imagery, which had now taken on an air of illusory substance that was all but indistinguishable from reality.

  “At last, you venture through the front door, your expectation of what lies on the other side tempered by th
e domicile's drab exterior. Upon entering, you quickly discover that your lack of enthusiasm is well-founded…the architecture is quaint at best, decorative embellishments are largely absent, and an atmosphere of vacant desolation lingers like an inert haze in every corner. Instead of allowing yourself to become disappointed by this, however, you formulate a theory based upon your garden revelation; that the range of your environmental mastery in this magical world might also extend here, perhaps increasing congruently–even exponentially–the deeper into it you delve. Eager to put this belief to the test, you cast errant thoughts from your mind and envision a mansion of incomparable majesty, not quite prepared for just how faithful a facsimile your psyche can now fabricate. Spartan emptiness literally flourishes before your eyes with ornate adornments; paintings and tapestries instantly materialize onto mahogany-paneled walls, antiquated furnishings sprout up from iridescent marble floors, and construction elements that were once merely practical spontaneously reshape themselves to form lavish domestic additions.