Anathema, p.1
Anathema, page 1
A N A T H E M A
Written by David Dalessandro
Published by First Folio Press/North Medina Media
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2013 by David Dalessandro
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* * *
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
* * *
PREFACE
4 June, 1858
Nearly two years have passed since the events chronicled herein. The memories tied to that terrifying week are still vivid and capable of inducing the occasional nightmare. I have decided, after considerable contemplation, to commit my recollections to the printed page and thereby exorcise them from the darkest recesses of my mind.
I have described as truthfully and objectively as possible the experiences of my brave band of fellow travelers, supplemented with such personal and public materials as other participants were willing to share or are available, in the hopes that this archive may provide both a record for scholars and scientists should a like matter ever again occur.
Respectfully Submitted,
Balthazar Andrews, MD
* * *
ANATHEMA
Or,
The Hemophage
A CHRONICLE OF THE CURIOUS OCCURRENCES ON THE ISLAND OF NANTUCKET IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY SIX, INCLUDING A SUPPOSITION REGARDING THE LOSS OF THE WHALING VESSELS 'CERES' AND 'BALEEN’; THE SUBSEQUENT HORROR VISITED UPON THE ISLAND AND ITS AFTERMATH; WITH HERETOFORE UNPUBLISHED SCIENTIFIC OBSERVATIONS AND HYPOTHESES RELATED TO THE EVENTS THEREIN; COMPRISED OF NARRATIVE BY THE AUTHOR AND SUPPLEMENTED WITH CONTEMPORANEOUS JOURNALS AND PUBLIC PAPERS.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
“Mr. Andrews!”
The stern voice of my landlady, Mrs. Winifred Castle, echoed up the stairs. Bleary-eyed from a late night of studying my anatomy text, I stirred from my bed.
“What is it?”
“You’ve a letter, delivered by a messenger no less.”
I pulled on my robe and stumbled out of my room. To my surprise, Mrs. Castle breathlessly awaited me on the second-floor landing.
A sturdy woman of sixty years, it was a rare occasion when Mrs. Castle’s stony face revealed her emotions. Apparently, the arrival of an envelope by private messenger was one such occasion, for her flushed face was alive with anticipation.
“Thank you for bringing it up.”
“I thought it might involve a pressing matter.” She handed over the envelope and waited, her gaze locked on the mysterious missive. I chose not to disappoint her by retreating to my room before opening the communiqué.
The monogrammed stationery was familiar, as was the precise handwriting:
Your presence at 12 Everett St. is requested with all due dispatch.
Her eyes followed the note as it disappeared into my robe pocket. “All is well, I trust?”
“Yes. Dr. Redfern has summoned me.”
“You work all hours in his laboratory as it is. Are you to also be at his beck and call? On the Sabbath, no less,” she grumbled as I headed to my room.
“Do not fear, Mrs. Castle,” I called out. “Upon my return, we shall play our regular game of backgammon.”
* * *
Asa, my mentor's Negro butler, greeted me with his usual warm smile.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Andrews.”
He ushered me across the burnished wood floor of the atrium and drew open two massive pocket doors.
“The doctor will join you in a moment.”
During my frequent visits to the house on 12 Everett Street, I had never passed through those pocket doors into Josiah Redfern’s inner sanctum. My eye quickly took in his splendid study. A desk, equipped with inkwells and open journals, sat beneath a Palladian window that looked out upon expansive gardens. A rococo settee and two matching armchairs, each upholstered in dark red fabric, faced a massive hearth.
Bookshelves dominated the room. Only an occasional bust or keepsake interrupted the parade of scholarly volumes. A cursory examination of one section, devoted to medical and natural sciences, revealed Sir Charles Bell's The Hand and Vesalius's De Humani Corporis Fabrica, both of which appeared to be first editions.
To my surprise, a section of the bookcase rotated and Redfern emerged. Before the bookcase rotated back into place, I glimpsed a descending stairway. “Good of you to come, Andrews. Sorry for the short notice.”
A former naval officer, he retained the stiff bearing of his service days. His gray hair was close-cropped and a neatly trimmed beard accented the contours of his sharp jawline.
He motioned me to the settee. “A matter of interest has arisen. Are you currently available for, say, the next two days?”
“I am engaged in private tutoring but my schedule is flexible.”
“Excellent.” He removed a meerschaum pipe from his collection and packed it with tobacco from a glass humidor.
“I have received a request from a former colleague, Dr. Ezekiel Stewart. He has a medical practice on Nantucket. Are you familiar with the place?”
“It is an island off Cape Cod.”
“Thirty miles, approximately. At any rate, Dr. Stewart also serves as the local coroner. He has written asking for my assistance in a medical matter, an undertaking that would require my presence on the island. Since I depart for Paris in the morning, I cannot honor his request.”
“May I inquire as to the nature of the consultancy?”
He struck a match and lit his pipe. The distinctive scent of Balkan Sobranie tobacco drifted toward me.
“He requests a second opinion regarding an autopsy.”
“Might I be so forward as to ask why?”
“He only indicated that the matter was ‘curious.’” My mentor puffed thoughtfully. “I want you to stand in my stead.”
I was dumbfounded by the turn in the conversation.
Redfern smiled. “You look as though you have just seen a ghost.”
“Naturally, I am flattered, but wonder if I am qualified to undertake this task.”
“You are too modest. You have observed me on numerous dissections. I find you inquisitive yet dutiful, not given to flights of fancy or leaps of logic, a true apostle of the scientific method. All expenditures related to travel and lodging have been accounted for, as well as a personal stipend.”
He walked toward his desk. “Dr. Stewart is ambling toward his dotage, and, in truth, I have long left such pedestrian investigations behind.” Redfern retrieved a leather folder and tapped it against his palm as he walked back toward me. “I would be happy to sponsor a journal publication if your work there proves of interest.”
He extended the folder. “Within, you will find the autopsy report, a map of the island with Stewart’s office circled, a ticket on a supply vessel which leaves for Nantucket on the morrow, and your cash stipend. Stewart has also offered temporary lodging, should it be required.”
Given the opportunity thus presented, I took the envelope and accepted the consultancy.
Asa entered. “Your carriage awaits, sir.”
“Ah, duty calls—a fund-raising event in support of fugitive slaves. Hopefully, our next president can temper the national debate, unlike Pierce.” He took the proffered coachman’s hat. “I look forward to a full report upon my return, Andrews. Be well.”
CHAPTER TWO
Fortune had smiled on me, and I was determined to validate my mentor’s confidence. As I strolled home, it was only natural to recall the events that led to this moment in my life.
Pale and scrawny as a youth, beset by a variety of nagging medical ailments, I became a voracious reader, fairly devouring text after text. My favorite was Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle, but a certain type of novel, represented by The Three Musketeers and Ivanhoe, fascinated me, for the exploits of a hero in the service of a maiden or kingdom held great allure for a bedridden boy. My reading list also included Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the macabre stories by Edgar Allan Poe.
My sister Emily, five years my junior, a sprite with freckled cheeks, bounded into my room on a regular basis and requested that I read aloud. She sat at the foot of the bed, chin in hands, and hung on my every word.
Her bright-eyed wonde
By the time I reached the age of fourteen, my body had sprouted and the maladies that affected me vanished. Unfortunately, at the same time, Emily succumbed to a bout of influenza. I watched, helpless to affect her fate, and an undefined anger raged, for I could think of no reason a spirit as vibrant as my sister should have been extinguished at such a young age.
In the years since her death, my youthful fury faded, replaced by a nagging guilt that forever linked her demise to my burgeoning vitality.
My father—a compact man, precise in movement and fastidious in appearance—was an accounting clerk in a shoe factory, and from him came my attention to detail. My mother was tall and slender, with translucent skin and eyes of the palest blue imaginable. She drew from an unlimited reserve of patience as my caretaker and constant source of love and reassurance. Emily’s death shook them both greatly. My father never again attended a church service after her funeral, while my mother busied herself with volunteer efforts at the local hospital.
During my high school years, every free hour was spent in the large public park a few blocks from my home. I kept a detailed journal of my daily observations. Convinced that I would one day discover some unknown variation of frog or grasshopper, my notes filled numerous journals. (Upon reflection, Darwin’s tale of the natural world did drive much of my fieldwork and ambition.)
It was not surprising that, upon high school graduation, I chose a course of study in the natural sciences at the College of New Jersey. While there, a number of my character traits—a desire for solitude, a preference for contemplation over physical exertion, and a reliance on logic over emotion—calcified. I am a man perfectly happy to be alone in a laboratory late at night. During my sophomore year, my father passed away. My mother remarried and moved to Philadelphia shortly after my college graduation.
I gained employment as an instructor in natural science at Phillips Exeter Academy and remained there for one year. At some point in contemplation of my future, the idea of earning a degree in medicine took hold. This impulse probably found its origin in Emily’s death, but I also believed the rigors of medical study would present an intellectual challenge more substantive than teaching well-heeled young men, for whom prep school was merely a right-of-passage.
When I arrived in Cambridge in the fall of 1855, I rented my room from Mrs. Castle. Her late husband was a carriage-trade physician and the home reflected his prosperity. I was lucky to find it, being only blocks from Harvard Yard, and luckier still that she only accepted medical students as boarders. The rent was quite reasonable, considering the accommodations, and, I sensed, secondary to her desire for the company of studious young men who pursued the same career as her husband.
She chose me, I am certain, because we engaged in a discussion of the fine points of backgammon during my initial visit. My father taught me the game, and although I did not play on a regular basis, I understood its nuances sufficiently to impress Mrs. Castle. Although not an explicit condition of my lease, every Sunday afternoon for the past nine months was spent tossing dice and moving checkers in my landlady’s parlor.
“What did Dr. Redfern want that could not wait until tomorrow?” Mrs. Castle asked.
“He has dispatched me to Nantucket.”
“Nantucket?”
“You know the place?”
“Only that it is run by Quakers. Best place for them, in the middle of the ocean, what with their unconventional ideas on social matters.” She captured my piece and set in on the bar. My mind was not focused on the game, but rather on my coming journey.
Her categorization of Quakers surprised me, for I was only aware of their strong pacifist attitudes. “What of their unconventional ideas?”
“For one, it is said the women run the business of the island.” She rolled the dice and contemplated her next move. “What is it that you will do there?”
“A medical consultation.”
She looked up sharply. “I do hope you will be compensated for this service.”
“I received a generous cash stipend.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Two days.”
She captured another piece. “Your favorite dinner of corned beef and cabbage will await your return.”
None of Mrs. Castle’s dishes qualified as my favorite. In addition to corned beef, her culinary skills centered about Mulligan stews, cottage pies, soda bread, and a dessert goody. Food was a necessary inconvenience, in any case, not worth a second thought, so long as the portions were ample.
Eventually, my position hopeless, I resigned and begged off another game. On the enclosed front porch, I sat amidst Mrs. Castle’s extensive collection of African violets and read the report Dr. Redfern provided.
The facts of the case were simple. The body of a fully clothed man in his twenties washed ashore. The man carried no identification papers.
Dr. Stewart performed an autopsy. His report, however, was incomplete, in that it did not contain a conclusion on either a cause or manner of death. ‘Cause of death’ related to the medical reason for cessation of life, such as drowning, while ‘manner of death’ determined whether death was accidental or due to criminal activity. These omissions piqued my curiosity, but I thought it best to make no assumption regarding the case.
I repaired to my room and packed. My uncle, a successful attorney in New York City, who routinely replaced his possessions with the newest fashion, gifted me his used leather Gladstone bag in perfectly good condition. I packed four pair of drawers (custom-made by dear Mrs. Castle), two shirts, three pair of socks, and a pair of herringbone trousers, a union suit, and toilet supplies. For the voyage itself, I set out a shirt, corduroy trousers with braces, and a pair of beaten preacher boots.
In addition, I prepared my trusted satchel, a gift from my parents upon my departure to the university. Constructed of saddle leather, it sported numerous pockets, brass buckles, and a shoulder strap. Now, the leather, softened and scarred from years of use, was a handsome accouterment and held my journals, writing implements, several specimen collection bottles, a Coddington magnifier, and a collapsible brass spyglass.
Buoyed by Dr. Redfern’s confidence in my abilities, I looked forward with keen anticipation to my first ocean voyage and consultancy.
Prudence Mott’s Diary
15 July 1856—I have heard the most interesting news! Dr. Ezekial Stewart has requested assistance from an esteemed Harvard professor. His arrival must be related to the body found on the Eel Point Beach several days ago. According to my friend, Daniel Booth, there were curious aspects regarding the poor unfortunate’s body. Moreover, Mother informed me that Dr. Stewart asked if we might provide this visitor lodging in our guest cottage.
I hope our guest is open and willing to discuss his findings, for I am interested in the workings of the scientific mind. Certainly, A. Dupin, Poe’s wonderful character, relies upon science and objective observations to solve complicated crimes by the process of ratiocination. As noted elsewhere in this journal, I remain fascinated with Mr. Poe’s fictions, regardless of his quite scandalous personal life. Would that he were still alive to draw more wondrous tales from his imagination!
It is my desire to soon leave Nantucket and obtain greater education, particularly in biology and chemistry, like my good friend Fausta Darkbloom. Mother says that I should be content to find a good Quaker husband and raise a family, here on the island, but I am not at all content with that future. Fausta has stressed that there is a change underway regarding the rights of women in this society, and I should not allow the current male-dominated society to place limits on my future. I choose to follow the lead of my aunt, Lucretia Mott, and involve myself in all matters important to a democratic society, from the emancipation of women to the emancipation of slaves. Would that we all be free as men to pursue our passions!
I do so wish Father were here to discuss these matters. There has been no word concerning his fate for two years, though I am certain he shall sail into port, safe and sound, in the coming days.
When he departed five years ago, I was but twelve. Now, not only am I four inches taller, but truly a woman in all respects. Will he even recognize me when he walks through the front door? I wonder if my burgeoning desire to leave the island and seek my own future will surprise and trouble him.
