The Fall
He reads aloud a few pages from The Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm, which has always been one of our favorites. The servants bring us dinner, looking around at all the new furnishings, their eyes big as the platters they are serving us from.
“I told them that the tasteless stuff they’ve been serving is no good. I’ll hire a cook from the city to prepare something less bland.”
“I asked the cook to leave out the spices,” I whisper as Roderick breaks off a piece of bread and hands it to me. It is slightly sweet and dripping butter.
After dinner we sit together, and he reads aloud until it is very late. The clock in the hallway keeps striking. If it doesn’t right itself, Roderick will surely replace it with a new one. He’s put flowers in a vase on the table. They remind me uncomfortably of Mother, with her imported flowers.
“It’s your bedroom now,” he reminds me as I glance toward her door.
The last thing I want is to sleep in a room where Mother slept. Still, if Dr. Winston is lurking about, he won’t expect to find us here. I can go back to my old rooms and bring whatever I like; it’s just that it doesn’t seem right to bring the moldering remnants of my childhood into these rooms with shiny new furnishings.
126
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
I wake to the sound of sobbing. A ghost? Some miserable Usher ghost that is attached to this set of rooms? I ease the door open, fearful of what I will find.
Roderick.
The window he had the servants clean yesterday is still free of grime, and he is bathed by morning light.
The roses have wilted. Black petals lie all around the base of the table. The curtains at the window are tattered and covered with streaks of green mold. A metal spring has pierced the covering of the fine new couch, and the velvet is faded, thin in spots, as if ghosts have sat there all night, every night, for a thousand years, drinking tea and mocking us. The rugs are frayed and worn, faded. The candelabra hangs askew, in need of polishing.
Roderick’s hands are pressed to his face. Tears drip through his delicate fingers, and his shoulders shake.
I reach out to him, but he won’t let me touch him.
“Did you know this would happen?” The accusation in his voice freezes me.
“I was afraid,” I whisper. “But I thought maybe this time things would be different. Maybe the house would be so pleased to have us both here that it would allow things to be nice for a while.”
I hoped the house would let us have this, to try to lull me into submission. I wanted a few nice days before everything fell apart.
127
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
Roderick left the house. I nearly followed but thought he could use some time on his own. An hour passed. Then two. Now he’s back; his face is flushed from his exertion outside. He slams the door.
“I won’t live here,” he says.
This could be the answer to the problem of getting him out of the house. Except, from his tone and stance, I don’t believe him.
“Where else could you go?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“I have someone . . . there’s someone . . .” He has trouble spitting it out. I don’t say anything. It is not my responsibility to help him. “I am in love. We could live together in the city.”
He starts to say more, but I touch his arm.
“Not here,” I whisper.
“What?” He pulls away, determined not to get close enough to hear me.
The lights dim, and the room shimmers around us. The temperature dips. A picture falls from the wall and clatters, and a sharp tile falls, hitting Roderick’s forehead. The air in the room grows heavy, like atmospheric dank air that pushes you to the ground and will not let you rise. It’s difficult to move, even to raise my head. His hand covers most of his face, and blood flows through his fingers.
I feel a terrible emotion. Pleasure. Finally he will see. His lack of belief has pained me for the last time.
The mirror above the fireplace goes dark. I avert my eyes, struggling to put my sleeve up to his forehead to staunch the blood, standing on my toes. The two of us being this close will appease the house, I hope. I pray.
“Madeline,” he whispers, and I can feel his fear. The same fear that crippled him as a boy. And finally I understand that he is not strong enough to withstand the darkness that is the house, the consciousness of it.
“I am driven to the brink of insanity,” he whispers.
The warm blood seeps down through my sleeve where I hold it against his head.
The floor ripples under our feet.
“Outside,” I whisper. We must get out. Now. But he doesn’t move.
“I hear the house now,” he says. “It fills my mind.” The way he looks at me reminds me of when we were children. He’s vulnerable. But I can’t fix this for him. “It fills my mind with you. I should not think of you. I don’t want this, Madeline.”
“I know,” I tell him, looking into his eyes, trying to be calm for both of us.
I start to pull away, but the house groans and the floor shifts sharply beneath us; the air of the room compresses. We stumble. And Roderick’s lips touch mine.
The house sighs. My mind opens to his, and I know how my lips feel to him at the same time that I feel his lips against mine.
“No.” I push him away. I will not let the house win, let it turn our bond into a curse.
His hand grips my arm above my elbow. We stare at each other. My shock mirrors his. This must never happen again.
I start to say that, but then he screams and falls to the floor, holding his head. The blood is forgotten, a superficial scratch. He has finally come into his Usher heritage.
128
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
Every day I search the house for any sign of Dr. Winston. I question the servants and the other doctors. Finally I go to the vault. Everything is as we left it, including the sledgehammer. A chill passes through me as I consider it. I could end the house right now. End all the misery.
From one of the passages above, I hear one of the maids laugh. Not derisive, but a true mirthful laugh. And Roderick is resting upstairs. Other people live in this house besides me. I have to lay my plans carefully, to save the servants—though as Usher descendants, they might try to stop me if they knew.
129
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
A week has passed with no sign of Dr. Winston. My shoulder is nearly healed. I must devise a plan to get Roderick and the servants away from the house.
Roderick is painting. At least that’s what he calls it. He stares at the palette for hours on end, contemplating slate blue, indigo, perhaps charcoal gray. Only occasionally does he put the brush against the canvas, but when he does, the images he creates are amazing and powerful.
I walk into the studio. He looks up from his current painting and stares at me for a moment.
“I never noticed how beautiful your teeth are,” he says.
I don’t answer. He doesn’t expect me to.
“You should always wear black dresses. Somber colors make your hair glow.”
I don’t tell him that I found a strand of white this morning. As always, I avoid telling Roderick anything too serious.
Dust has settled around his slippered feet. He is fading; sometimes I can almost see through him. He stares out the window, into some world that only he can see.
Roderick is here to stay. He fully believes that the house is watching us and that we are cursed.
I have what I wanted.
It is bitter.
130
Dearest Roderick,
I’ve left school now, officially. Graduated. Father is sending me on tour, to travel for a few months before I take over the family business and estate. I’d hoped to visit you, but you haven’t written.
Noah
131
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
Whatever reprieve I had, whatever sense of fleeting wellness Roderick returned, is gone. Even the softest fabric exacerbate
s the sensitivity of my skin. All of my dresses bruise me. I feel raw. This is a new curse, this deep pain. Even if I find the strength to lift the sledgehammer, will I be able to swing it? And the house . . . the house wants a child. Mine and Roderick’s. After our kiss, it is hopeful. Waiting. It doesn’t care if I die, as long as I have a baby before I succumb, so the Usher line continues.
Roderick has begun painting images of my death. First he painted me broken at the bottom of the staircase, and then dead on the flagstones of the courtyard.
But I won’t die that way. No matter how the house threatens me.
Roderick continues to deteriorate.
I lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Most of it splashes back, another stain on his white shirt. I keep trying, hopeful that I can get a little nourishment into him. He turns away, muttering. Poor Roderick. The house whispers that this is my fault. That if we accept our fate, the curse will be lifted. At least until the next generation of Usher children are born.
132
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
The 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.
133
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
Dearest 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
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?
134
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
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.
135
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
Roderick 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, ‘Oh, that’s Roderick Usher. He’s crazy.’ And another said, ‘He’s to be your roommate,’ and that’s when he walked over to me and introduced himself.
“‘You 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.
“‘Leave him alone,’ he said. ‘He’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.
136
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
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 practic
e 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.
137
MADELINE IS EIGHTEEN
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 shining—but 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.”