The Half-Hidden (Part Seven)

By Marc-Yves Tumin

Close your eyes. Permit yourself for a moment to become a mental traveler. Think of Newport, of the harbor front, of the month of August and an idyllic afternoon at the summer cottage of the Questuaries.

In the background of their Italian Renaissance-style palazzo, Petite Gazelle, a mahogany schooner cradles the whitecaps.

In the foreground, a spacious greensward gives way to a topiary garden replete with a variety of animals.

There are fountains, terraces, follies, and marble pavilions. A lavish Fête champêtre is under way.

There are yachtsmen and heiresses. There are legions of servants and Jeroboams of champagne. Magicians, dancers, and jugglers entertain the guests.

The savoir-vivre is served by the puncheon. The opalescence of privilege is everywhere.

There are gay young ladies displaying their figures to the best advantage.

There are merry young gentlemen, attentive to their endeavors. Inside the mansion, some guests can't help but admire the exotic furnishings, imported wallpaper, and elaborate stenciling.

Outside, some are falling out at tennis. Some are balancing on the running boards of a Bugatti saloon.

Some stretch their legs near the Chinese Tea House. Some toss cards into a hat by the orangerie.

As the day wanes, a band in the gazebo strikes up a tune. A jitney boat threads its way through the mooring buoys.

Someone recites the genealogy of the DeMontmorencys and their journey from La Belle France to the Emerald Isle.

At the same instant, far away, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, someone's child, in the garden of a townhouse, peers through a tall wooden fence into the depths of the Ultima Thule, a moth enchanted by a flame.

She knows not that she spies an eidolon of oblivion, a poisoned bookplate in the onomasticon of death, the night-boding monster known as Mordred.

That fateful afternoon, as her parents raised crystal flutes to the success of their hosts, Danielle watched with morbid fascination while the dragonish beast worked loose its muzzle.

Then, muscles rippling - as though a body of treacherous water fraught with crisscross waves and many small whirlpools coalescing into one - the bullmastiff tore loose its mask, broke apart its chain, and hurled itself at its wooden confines with a thunderous roar.

Mordred, unshackled, circled the yard with increasing speed, and, as if impelled by a tidal current of his own generation, burst from the circumference of his confines, taking a flying leap at the fence, surmounting the barrier, and plunging into the DeMontmorency garden, a cresting wave athwart a seawall.

Danielle's governess was just then ascending the steps to the garden from the ground floor - a goldfish rising noiselessly through the verdurous depths.

At the sight of the enormous canine, she shrieked, dropped her silver tray, turned to flee, stumbled heavily, and fell down the stone steps, at which point Mordred rushed at the child, seized her by the shoulder, and hurled her across the garden as if she were a paper pinwheel.

The small stoic girl was stunned by the suddenness and ferocity of the attack. She picked herself up, rubbing her eyes. One arm hung at a strange angle. Her delicate lace-trimmed frock was torn and dirty.

One knee was skinned. Seemingly oblivious to the presence of the marauding beast, she remained in a dazed state for some seconds, plucking at her soiled garments, then began to cry softly.

The murderous Mordred canted his head as he observed her, and snarled hideously as he gathered himself to make an end to the grim business, savoring the prospect of the coup de grâce.

Some neighbors who had witnessed the attack were shouting for help. Some covered their eyes.

One screamed and fainted on the spot. Another rang for the police. However, as the last few grains sifted through the hourglass of Danielle's brief life, one stray speck, it would appear, detained their fatal descent.

Just as Mordred was prepared to spring once more, he detected a noise. There was a rustling of leaves behind the rosebush, followed by a soft thump.

Something emerged into the sunlit garden and crossed his line of sight. And, then, for the first time in his long death-dealing career, he hesitated.

Before him stood by far the largest cat he'd ever encountered. Keatsie had returned, and, in all his feline magnificence - back arched, tail bristling, head turned inward, poised on tiptoe - posted himself sideways, directly between Danielle and her fate.

Now, in Mordred's vast experience with blood sport, the unfortunate creatures that he'd wrangled with, not excluding humankind, were either fleeing in desperation, frozen in fear or dead, usually in that order. However, this adversary was refusing to run away.

(Continued next week)