Veiled Light Upon my arrival, I was taken aback by the splendor of the manor. Mapperton’s house lay at the center of a large field, surrounded by a dense white pine forest. The warm light of the autumn evening shone through the trees, casting great shadows. No shadow, I noticed, fell upon the house. The fields, or what I could see of them beyond the row of statues that lined either side of the drive, were perfectly golden, leading down to a lake by the east garden. I was met by my host as I approached the front doors. I had corresponded with Vanessa often in the weeks leading up to my visit. She had written to me then for the first time in eleven years, giving condolences after the passing of my brother. As our correspondence grew, however, time seemed to blend until it was nearly no time at all that we had been apart. As I stepped out of the car, I was nearly tackled by Vanessa. I have never been the hugging sort, but even in our youth, she had never been one to let that get in the way. Grabbing my hand, she pulled me toward the house. As we entered, she hung my coat on a coat rack and called for her valet to take my bags. “We’ve given you the master bedroom, it’s just upstairs, the second hall on your left. You mustn’t leave your room at night, once you go up you’ll see that certain sections of the floor are weak. Nicky, he’s here!” Vanessa’s brother Nicholas appeared at the top of the stairs, looking quite disheveled. “Well, you’re in a state,” she reprimanded. “Come down, 56
I’m taking him on a tour!” Nicholas walked slowly down the stairs. He had, it looked, just woken up. I turned to tell Vanessa that we needn’t go now, we could wait for him, but she was never one to be patient. So we started down the hallway with him in tow. “Come come,” she said, walking briskly and playfully ahead. “You must see the gardens. They’re the absolute highlight of this old house. Isn’t that right, brother mine?” I turned to look at Nicholas, surprised to see that he was no longer following. He had stopped, I saw and was gazing into a looking glass, one of many that lined the hallway. I started back to catch his attention when I felt Vanessa take hold of my sleeve. “Don’t,” she said. “He is prone to headaches, and talking to him will do more harm than good. He will come out of it by dinnertime.” She spoke with a kind of caring authority. “Come along now, you must,” she announced, returning to her bright manner. “You’ll find that we keep the most beautiful herbs. You’ve heard that I make my own teas? They’re the absolute highlight of the neighboring town.” She led me out the east entrance and down a small path, and I found myself once more surrounded by statues. “There’s a gorgeous spot, just around this next hedge.” Vanessa skipped forward. “We had a minister here, do you remember him? Dragged us to this place every Sunday, and made us read from those horrible little books with the long words. Then he would leave, and mother would sneak out with the communion wine. I did love the crackers,
though. Tasted a bit stale.” She talked so fast, it was difficult to keep up with her. We emerged from the path, and on our right there lay a small monastery, just large enough for a family like theirs to attend a private Mass. “Of course, Nicky and I haven’t had the time, and the old priest died, I think, a few years
Abby Neubert
back. It’s just sort of sat here since then.” She paused, then swung open the doors. “See for yourself.” It was immediately evident that the church had not been kept up. Overcome with plants, the stained glass windows were smashed and the cross had fallen from the altar. The benches were slowly crumbling, and the silver candlesticks were weather-worn to black. Lining the walls were the stations of the cross, ornately carved. My eyes lingered over the images. Once white marble, cracks formed by years of neglect had since been filled with the twisting vines that I had climbed so often in my youth. Twisting, even upon the holiest of images. Decorating the cross with their suffocating mockery of life. “God doesn’t visit here
