Hello Gentle Readers, here for you, finally is some new material from "Lazarus Rising"
Chapter 11
Chapter 11
The
gravel was hard and rough against his cheek. The scratch there was
painful and stung. Slowly, and with pain coursing through his whole
body, Lazarus pushed himself up and turned so he was sitting with his
back against the cold, hard marble of the pond's edge.
His body was wracked with pain, but his mind seemed clear. The face in the water had taunted him. That cruel, smiling, mocking face had made him feel that everything he had experienced was just a game being played by a greater force than himself.
His body was wracked with pain, but his mind seemed clear. The face in the water had taunted him. That cruel, smiling, mocking face had made him feel that everything he had experienced was just a game being played by a greater force than himself.
His
shirt, which the doctor had loaned to him, was ripped and soaked in
foul smelling, stagnant water and it clung to him, becoming almost
invisible so that his well defined, muscular torso revealed itself
beneath. He took a deep breath and tried to stand. Using his right arm
as a lever, he pushed himself up and looked around. It was eerily quiet.
Although the sun was shining and a few puffy, white clouds dotted the
sky, not a single bird was singing.
The only noise he could hear was the crunch of the gravel under his feet and his heavy breathing. He sat down on the pond's wide marble edge and tried to compose himself. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing. After a few moments he had calmed himself enough to open his eyes and refocus on his surroundings.
The garden was a shambles. Proud looking ornaments and small statues were now overgrown. Splashes of colour were intermixed with the brown of rotting vegetation and plants. Weeds grew everywhere, even the pond, which he imagined in its prime would have shone white in the sunlight seemed grey and drab.
Moss was growing around the base and the water was filled with rotting leaves from to many autumns. The ripples he had caused earlier had now receded and once again it reflected his face clearly. Fortunately this time, the mocking face did not appear and he took a step or two back from the pond to look at the statue more closely.
The statue was of a woman. She stood tall, strong and proud with a smile on her cold, marble lips. In her arms she held an infant, just a few months old. Lazarus could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl, but the baby was staring up at the woman intently. Lazarus wondered to himself if the sculpture was of the Virgin Mary and the infant Christ, but the clothes the woman was wearing indicated that this was a contemporary piece.
He mused to himself that the person who paid for this to be created was probably well off indeed and then he remembered where he was and who had lived here.
He was also suddenly aware that he was not alone.
"Its my mother" a voice said.
Lazarus spun around to find herself face to face with Robert Foxworth.
"I'm sorry to intrude Mr Foxworth" he stammered.
Foxwoth's arrival, although not completely unexpected had been surprising and Lazarus was temporarily flustered.
"My father had the statue made after my birth." Foxworth explained. "It's a little ostentatious if you ask me. What do you think Mister... erm, I'm sorry. What is your name?"
"L-Lazarus" he managed to gasp, "It's am interesting piece. Your father must have loved you and your mother very much."
Foxworth made a face that indicated to Lazarus that what he had said was somehow amusing.
"My father was an evil bastard Mr Lazarus. He didn't love anyone. The only thing that he desired was money and elevating his position was his only goal."
He pointed to a faded scar on his temple.
"You see that? My father gave me that the last time I saw him. I ran away that night and I didn't return until yesterday."
"If you don't mind me asking Mr Foxworth. Why did you come back?"
"Its a long story Mr Lazarus and I am afraid it will take a lot of explaining."
Foxworth suddenly noticed that Lazarus had been cut on the face and his shirt was dirty and wet.
"My dear sir, I must apologize for my lack of hospitality. Come on up to the house and you can change. You an I look to be the same size in shirt and you can borrow one of mine."
"Thank you sir." Lazarus said and he allowed himself to be guided through the garden towards the dark figure of the house.
"So tell me Mr Lazarus; how long have you been in Stelling Minnis?"
"Two days" he replied, "The strangest thing is I don't know why I came here."
Lazarus and Foxworth reached the steep stone steps that led up to the house. Up close, Lazarus realized, the house was not as imposing as it had looked from the doctor's bedroom window. Yes it was the largest house in the village but not as grand a structure as he had imagined.
At the side of the stone steps there was a rough stone wall and Lazarus had to use it to help him climb the steps. The stone felt course against his palm, yet somehow it felt familiar.
Foxworth walked the steps easily, his stride was assured and confident.
Halfway up the steps, Lazarus suddenly felt dizzy and he grabbed the wall with both hands and stopped. Foxworth, concerned for his visitor, grabbed Lazarus' shoulders to help him retain his footing on the steep stone stairs.
"Are you alright Sir? Please take your time."
"I'm fine thank you" Lazarus lied. He didn’t want Foxworth, or anyone else for that matter, to see him in such a state.
"The last couple of days have been quite a strain for me" he started to explain. "I lost my memory you see, and I have been experiencing strange visions and flashes of memory. Sometimes they can be quite disturbing and they leave me disorientated."
"Well, no need to be worried here my friend. Take my arm and I shall help you the rest of the way."
Lazarus allowed Foxworth to take his right arm and still holding with his left onto the stone wall, he allowed himself to be slowly led up the final section of steps. At the top was a paved terrace with more overgrown flowers and plants. Weeds were forcing themselves up between the paving stones which indicated to Lazarus that this grand house had been allowed to fall into disrepair.
A white iron table and chairs were positioned on the terrace and a parasol covered the table with shade. One corner of the parasol sagged rather pathetically because water, which had obviously collected after rainfall, had caused it to collapse.
Foxworth had noticed Lazarus' reaction to the disrepair and apologised.
"Sorry about the state of the place. According to my solicitor, after I left, my father had a breakdown and let the place fall into rack and ruin. Now that I have returned, I want to make the place a home again."
"It's a beautiful house Mr Foxworth."
"Please call me Robert. Come on inside."
The two men walked past the table and chairs and through two large, wooden double doors which gave them access to the interior.
It was dark inside and cooler. Black curtains covered the windows and the only light came from a single candle and the narrow stream of sunlight that came through the door that was slightly ajar. The suns rays illuminated the dust that the two men had disturbed as they entered and it hung glistening in the light, almost like dusty moths attracted to a flame.
"Pardon the mess Mr Lazarus, as I said my father let things slide for the last few years of his life and I have yet to hire any servants since my return."
"It's absolutely fine Robert."
"Please change your clothes my friend. You can use the stairs outside this room to get to the room I have been using."
Lazarus thanked Foxworth and headed out of the room through the dark, oak panelled door that his host had indicated, As he opened the door and stepped through , what seemed like years of dust was disturbed and it swirled around in the light that flooded in though the large window that dominated the staircase in front of him. This house is dying, Lazarus thought to himself. Maybe Foxworth can breathe new life into it.
He climbed the stairs slowly. He was still feeling uneasy about the vision of the mocking reflection of his own face and this house felt like it was watching him, and waiting.
At the top of the stairs he saw candle light coming from under the door and he tentatively pushed it open. The fact that the bed looked like it had been recently slept in surely meant he was in the right place. He stripped off the ripped and dirty shirt and, noticing a china wash bowl on a stout wooden table he splashed water on himself and looked at himself in the small dusty mirror. He wiped his hand across the glass to get a better look at himself.
His eyes were clear and alert. The scars on his neck and body were there for anybody to see but Jacques had fixed him. No, not fixed me, he thought, he saved me. The priest had given him his life back. Resurrected. He was Lazarus and that was all that really mattered now. The man he had been was gone and he realized that in order to honour his saviour he should accept who he was now, not who he had been.
Before he had left La Hulpe, Jacques has told him, "Find yourself Lazarus, but be sure that what you find is your true self. God has given you a second chance of life, don’t use his gift to seek revenge or plunge back into a bad life. The person you are now is whom God wants you to be."
Maybe he was who he was meant to be, but truth is important too and he wanted to find his truth.
He cleared more dust from the mirror and suddenly stopped as still as a statue and focused on something he could see reflected in it. He spun around so quickly he nearly knocked the bowl from the table.
On the wall was a portrait of a young man, maybe 14 years old. His eyes were blue, his hair fair. He gazed from the canvas with an intensity that only youth can show. The figure was standing next to the pond that Lazarus had seen in the garden. The statue of Foxworth's mother was dominating one corner of the portrait.
He knew the portrait, somewhere deep in the recesses of his fractured memory, he knew it. Flashes of memory cascaded into his brain and sparks of understanding flared.
The boy in the picture was him.
The only noise he could hear was the crunch of the gravel under his feet and his heavy breathing. He sat down on the pond's wide marble edge and tried to compose himself. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing. After a few moments he had calmed himself enough to open his eyes and refocus on his surroundings.
The garden was a shambles. Proud looking ornaments and small statues were now overgrown. Splashes of colour were intermixed with the brown of rotting vegetation and plants. Weeds grew everywhere, even the pond, which he imagined in its prime would have shone white in the sunlight seemed grey and drab.
Moss was growing around the base and the water was filled with rotting leaves from to many autumns. The ripples he had caused earlier had now receded and once again it reflected his face clearly. Fortunately this time, the mocking face did not appear and he took a step or two back from the pond to look at the statue more closely.
The statue was of a woman. She stood tall, strong and proud with a smile on her cold, marble lips. In her arms she held an infant, just a few months old. Lazarus could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl, but the baby was staring up at the woman intently. Lazarus wondered to himself if the sculpture was of the Virgin Mary and the infant Christ, but the clothes the woman was wearing indicated that this was a contemporary piece.
He mused to himself that the person who paid for this to be created was probably well off indeed and then he remembered where he was and who had lived here.
He was also suddenly aware that he was not alone.
"Its my mother" a voice said.
Lazarus spun around to find herself face to face with Robert Foxworth.
"I'm sorry to intrude Mr Foxworth" he stammered.
Foxwoth's arrival, although not completely unexpected had been surprising and Lazarus was temporarily flustered.
"My father had the statue made after my birth." Foxworth explained. "It's a little ostentatious if you ask me. What do you think Mister... erm, I'm sorry. What is your name?"
"L-Lazarus" he managed to gasp, "It's am interesting piece. Your father must have loved you and your mother very much."
Foxworth made a face that indicated to Lazarus that what he had said was somehow amusing.
"My father was an evil bastard Mr Lazarus. He didn't love anyone. The only thing that he desired was money and elevating his position was his only goal."
He pointed to a faded scar on his temple.
"You see that? My father gave me that the last time I saw him. I ran away that night and I didn't return until yesterday."
"If you don't mind me asking Mr Foxworth. Why did you come back?"
"Its a long story Mr Lazarus and I am afraid it will take a lot of explaining."
Foxworth suddenly noticed that Lazarus had been cut on the face and his shirt was dirty and wet.
"My dear sir, I must apologize for my lack of hospitality. Come on up to the house and you can change. You an I look to be the same size in shirt and you can borrow one of mine."
"Thank you sir." Lazarus said and he allowed himself to be guided through the garden towards the dark figure of the house.
"So tell me Mr Lazarus; how long have you been in Stelling Minnis?"
"Two days" he replied, "The strangest thing is I don't know why I came here."
Lazarus and Foxworth reached the steep stone steps that led up to the house. Up close, Lazarus realized, the house was not as imposing as it had looked from the doctor's bedroom window. Yes it was the largest house in the village but not as grand a structure as he had imagined.
At the side of the stone steps there was a rough stone wall and Lazarus had to use it to help him climb the steps. The stone felt course against his palm, yet somehow it felt familiar.
Foxworth walked the steps easily, his stride was assured and confident.
Halfway up the steps, Lazarus suddenly felt dizzy and he grabbed the wall with both hands and stopped. Foxworth, concerned for his visitor, grabbed Lazarus' shoulders to help him retain his footing on the steep stone stairs.
"Are you alright Sir? Please take your time."
"I'm fine thank you" Lazarus lied. He didn’t want Foxworth, or anyone else for that matter, to see him in such a state.
"The last couple of days have been quite a strain for me" he started to explain. "I lost my memory you see, and I have been experiencing strange visions and flashes of memory. Sometimes they can be quite disturbing and they leave me disorientated."
"Well, no need to be worried here my friend. Take my arm and I shall help you the rest of the way."
Lazarus allowed Foxworth to take his right arm and still holding with his left onto the stone wall, he allowed himself to be slowly led up the final section of steps. At the top was a paved terrace with more overgrown flowers and plants. Weeds were forcing themselves up between the paving stones which indicated to Lazarus that this grand house had been allowed to fall into disrepair.
A white iron table and chairs were positioned on the terrace and a parasol covered the table with shade. One corner of the parasol sagged rather pathetically because water, which had obviously collected after rainfall, had caused it to collapse.
Foxworth had noticed Lazarus' reaction to the disrepair and apologised.
"Sorry about the state of the place. According to my solicitor, after I left, my father had a breakdown and let the place fall into rack and ruin. Now that I have returned, I want to make the place a home again."
"It's a beautiful house Mr Foxworth."
"Please call me Robert. Come on inside."
The two men walked past the table and chairs and through two large, wooden double doors which gave them access to the interior.
It was dark inside and cooler. Black curtains covered the windows and the only light came from a single candle and the narrow stream of sunlight that came through the door that was slightly ajar. The suns rays illuminated the dust that the two men had disturbed as they entered and it hung glistening in the light, almost like dusty moths attracted to a flame.
"Pardon the mess Mr Lazarus, as I said my father let things slide for the last few years of his life and I have yet to hire any servants since my return."
"It's absolutely fine Robert."
"Please change your clothes my friend. You can use the stairs outside this room to get to the room I have been using."
Lazarus thanked Foxworth and headed out of the room through the dark, oak panelled door that his host had indicated, As he opened the door and stepped through , what seemed like years of dust was disturbed and it swirled around in the light that flooded in though the large window that dominated the staircase in front of him. This house is dying, Lazarus thought to himself. Maybe Foxworth can breathe new life into it.
He climbed the stairs slowly. He was still feeling uneasy about the vision of the mocking reflection of his own face and this house felt like it was watching him, and waiting.
At the top of the stairs he saw candle light coming from under the door and he tentatively pushed it open. The fact that the bed looked like it had been recently slept in surely meant he was in the right place. He stripped off the ripped and dirty shirt and, noticing a china wash bowl on a stout wooden table he splashed water on himself and looked at himself in the small dusty mirror. He wiped his hand across the glass to get a better look at himself.
His eyes were clear and alert. The scars on his neck and body were there for anybody to see but Jacques had fixed him. No, not fixed me, he thought, he saved me. The priest had given him his life back. Resurrected. He was Lazarus and that was all that really mattered now. The man he had been was gone and he realized that in order to honour his saviour he should accept who he was now, not who he had been.
Before he had left La Hulpe, Jacques has told him, "Find yourself Lazarus, but be sure that what you find is your true self. God has given you a second chance of life, don’t use his gift to seek revenge or plunge back into a bad life. The person you are now is whom God wants you to be."
Maybe he was who he was meant to be, but truth is important too and he wanted to find his truth.
He cleared more dust from the mirror and suddenly stopped as still as a statue and focused on something he could see reflected in it. He spun around so quickly he nearly knocked the bowl from the table.
On the wall was a portrait of a young man, maybe 14 years old. His eyes were blue, his hair fair. He gazed from the canvas with an intensity that only youth can show. The figure was standing next to the pond that Lazarus had seen in the garden. The statue of Foxworth's mother was dominating one corner of the portrait.
He knew the portrait, somewhere deep in the recesses of his fractured memory, he knew it. Flashes of memory cascaded into his brain and sparks of understanding flared.
The boy in the picture was him.
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