The Scream

By Joan Sutcliffe

The street is silent, lazily basking in a shimmering haze of heat. Then suddenly a lone figure screams. Skull faced and hunched over, it steps out of the shadow. Is it male or female, or a spectre from another world? A lost soul, it stands curved like a question mark and screams again, long and piercing, and the shrill echo curdles on the eardrums.

It is late afternoon in an almost deserted southern village and the mellow sunlight lends a copper tint to the adobe structures. Where a peach toned archway leads into a narrow cobble-stoned alley the sad being retreats and seems to disappear back into shadow. There is an untimely quality about the scene, and a feeling of tremendous antiquity overwhelms the senses. The moment seems to stand still.

Beyond the clustered buildings of sun-baked clay the road ascends into a steep grassy slope, alive with vigorous bursts of rhododendron, a spectrum of colour from purple-pink to red as blood. Standing there on the hillside beside a gnarled old oak tree is Mario, his middle aged years belied by the vibrancy and suppleness of his movements as he exercises his muscles. Glowing with health he greets the group of young women returning from the fields with baskets of fresh picked strawberries. With the swagger of a confident Romeo he reaches for the hand of the prettiest, a shy girl called Olivia, and breaks into the famous “O sole mio.”

“Come on, Olivia,” call her friends, “we have a bus to catch.”

But blue-eyed Olivia, pale as the dawn, gazes into the dark shining eyes of the romantic tenor with the jet black curls almost touching his broad shoulders, and wants to linger a while. Perhaps he might sing another of her favourite Neapolitan songs?

“You go ahead,” she says, “I'll get a later bus.”

Mario stops singing and smiles. As though in response, a bird calls from somewhere and starts a sweet haunting song just as a swallow-tail butterfly lands on her arm, and Olivia feels overwhelmed with the beauty around her. Dropping easily onto the ground beneath the oak, Mario invitingly pats the grass beside him, rippling green like flowing silk.

“Sit for a while,” he says, “just enjoy this moment. Let's talk and get to know each other. Life is so full and rich and there's so much to discuss, music, politics, philosophy......”

They talk and talk, taking refreshment in the strawberries, until the golden glow on the rhododendron deepening into a sepia tone of dark orange signals the fast approach of sunset. Taking her arm gently Mario raises her to her feet, and sauntering along beside her at a comfortable pace he sees her safely all the way to her home where, dropping the tenderest kiss on her cheek, he bids her “Buona notte.”

Olivia enjoys the sweetest sleep, and wakes to the first streak of pink on the eastern horizon with a languorous stretch. Though she can remember none of the details she has the feeling of returning from a beautiful dream and relaxes into the rosy glow encircling her body. Before the sun has risen she is already on her way to the farm, where she is working for the summer season, in the attempt to earn enough to support herself through her final college year. As she joins her workmates for coffee and bagels in the farm cafe her day begins, and the early morning sunlight soon beckons them out to the strawberry fields for another long day in the open air.

Hour after hour, it is tiring work bending over the thriving crops, filling basket after basket with the ruby red fruit. But ignoring her aching knees and straining back muscles she indulges her thoughts with romantic images, blossoming trees, roses and song birds. Somehow the rapturous scent and taste of strawberries remind her of Mario, and as she toils on to supply the never ceasing demand of the customers who flock to the country store by the rustic entrance to the farm, she wonders if she will see him again.

There was no need to doubt. She hears him singing first, the bittersweet tenor aria from “Madama Butterfly” and she frowns as she thinks of the base and selfish hero in the famous opera. Then she sees him, under the same oak tree, hands crossed over his heart and head raised to the perfect June sky, almost blue as sapphire, and she knows he is waiting just for her. Another exciting finish to a long hard day's work!

Glorious days pass into more glorious days, and strawberry picking is at its peak. She and Mario have become what the girls call “an item.” They see each other every day. When she is not working they go to dances, concerts or frequent the coffee houses, or just eat ice cream in the park. Soon Olivia knows that she has fallen completely in love. Mario is such a fascinating person, so full of  knowledge, so philosophical and such fun. He teases her mercilessly with that humorous twinkle in his eye. How can she possibly believe him when he tells her that he is an old man of seventy? He looks so young, and so effervescent with energy. 

It is just after the summer solstice festivities that Olivia first becomes aware that she is starting to grow tired more easily. Perhaps it originally sprang from her eagerness to join the age-old ceremony of welcoming the sunrise on that special day by the ancient stone circle on the hilltop with Mario. Then there had followed a particularly hard day's work and a long night of excitement, dancing until the last shred of light on the longest day had passed into the brilliance of starlit darkness. As the midsummer fires burned long into that night they had sung lustily until their throats ached. There had been little sleep for Olivia that night, and the following day had been doubly strenuous with work stretching until afternoon passed into the evening. 

As June passes into July, she is surprised that she has yet not regained her strength. But then the workload has increased. Not only are there the remnants of the strawberries to pick now, but also raspberries, cherries, peas, carrots, new potatoes, runner beans, etc. The working hours have lengthened, and the midday sun is hotter than ever. No wonder the strain is taking its toll! There are days that she can scarcely drag herself out of bed without an extreme exertion of will power. Her companions at the hostel keep remarking that she has lost weight and colour and her old lightness of spirit. Indeed they are right! She is feeling herself deteriorate rapidly and is worried about her gaunt appearance.

Mario, however, seems more attracted to her than ever. Hardly has she opened the door to start out in the mornings than he is there waiting. With a protective arm around her shoulders he accompanies her all the way to work, only to be there waiting as soon as she finishes, no matter how late. Ever attentive he insists on spending the whole evening beside her, singing to her, holding her hand, plying her with whatever food and drink she desires. Actually there are times she feels a little overwhelmed by his presence, and cannot help feeling pleased about the rules of the hostel for girls, that strictly forbids any male visitors after 10:00 pm.

It is on an afternoon in mid July when work in the fields had to be abandoned because of a particularly heavy rainstorm, and she and Mario are strolling together under a shared umbrella down the quiet street with adobe houses and cafes on either side, that a strange figure suddenly stumbles from out of a shaded narrow cobbled alleyway and seems to glide towards them. Thin and cadaverous in appearance with large hollow eyes staring wildly from a ghastly sunken face, it raises a scrawny arm to point a long bony finger right at Mario and lets out a monstrous scream. Then another and another, each more penetrating than the last, before folding up over itself and cowering like a beaten dog.

Gripping Olivia's arm in a vice-like lock and cursing under his breath, Mario drags her away furiously, her ankles tripping over each other as they rush down the street, into an area of busy market stalls where they lose themselves amid a crowd of people sheltering under the awnings of a large coffee house. Slowing down now, he leads her more gently through the door and inside to a table at the far end in a little booth of its own. 

Ignoring her questions of  “who was that.... what was that all about?” he sits silent for a long while, a grim expression darkening his features, totally wrapped in his own world of thought as distant from her as though they were strangers.

Suddenly recovering, he mutters, “Oh, that was nothing, just some maniac.”

As he leaves her alone for a few minutes, Olivia experiences an unnerving apprehension. The incident has left her with a sense of unease. She is certain that Mario knows more about it than he is telling her. His reaction was so immediate and intense. Has he some sort of relationship to that weird being? There was something frightfully tragic about the figure, it seemed hardly human. As she looks over to the bar where Mario is buying coffees, she realizes with a sudden sickening feeling that she really knows nothing at all about Mario's background and has no substantial facts concerning his present situation. 

Returning to the table with two large cups of cappuccino coffee and a plate of assorted cakes, Mario is his usual extroverted self again, giving her a wink and a broad smile. At the same time Olivia is aware of a headache forming in her right temple and a sensation of utter weariness as though the vitality is being drained from her body. As Mario rattles on, laughing uproariously at his own jokes and making the most outlandish statements, Olivia meanwhile feels herself retiring into an almost paralytic state of inertia. Unable to stomach any of the coffee or dessert herself, she watches with glazed over eyes as Mario heartily stuffs himself, all the while filling the air with meaningless chatter, and all she wants to do is go home and sleep, sleep and sleep.

“Oh dear!” Mario stops and looks at her with that warm tenderness moistening his eyes, “you look very tired. Let me get you home quickly so that you can rest.”

Rest she does, for the next three days, missing work, not speaking with her friends, and not even seeing Mario. He seems to understand her situation, and leaves her alone. On the fourth day she makes herself get up and prepare for work. She needs the money. As though knowing her physical and psychic nature inside and out, Mario is standing there waiting for her as she sets off to catch the early bus. 

Somehow she gets through the day. Her deplorable state is apparent to her supervisor who, possessing a kindly nature, sits her at a table for most of the work hours to shell peas and beans in preparation for the canning and freezing process. A small respite but she is grateful and feels less depleted of energy by the end of the work shift, and is actually happy when she sees Mario waiting for her at the entrance gate. Embracing eagerly they detour on the journey home by way of an abandoned apple orchard, where they sit close together on the overgrown grass amidst the stunted trees. 

They talk and talk, or rather Mario talks and talks, and as he talks Olivia feels an utter exhaustion creep over her. The more vibrant his conversation, the more he spreads out his chest and the more glowing his complexion, the more pale and drawn Olivia feels. Her head is throbbing and she wants to scream. In fact it is only with the greatest effort at self control that she prevents herself from screaming non-stop. 

Abruptly she breaks away from Mario's encircling arm. “I need to be going home,” she announces, ignoring Mario's pleading eyes. “I feel really ill, and want to be alone,” she continues, not caring if she sounds selfish, for she needs to be on her own and quiet to think. The sun is beating down and her brain is foggy, but there's some vague shapeless terror on the periphery of her awareness that she needs to bring out into the open.

With a forced determination she hoists herself to her feet and starts to walk. Immediately springing up like a tiger Mario is beside her. Walking side by side, it's almost as if his easy agile strides are sucking the life force out of her legs, leaving a lethargic heaviness as she drags her steps. As his jolly and carefree banter seeps into her mind overpowering her own thinking, she suddenly snaps, “Oh shut up!”

“Now, now, temper, temper!” he humours her with a smirk.

Then all the pent up tension inside her bursts and she shouts in exasperation, “will you please just shut your mouth for once.”

Mario drops his head looking very uncomfortable and avoids meeting her eyes as she turns away and straightens up. Feeling rather embarrassed by her involuntary reaction, she murmurs, “I am sorry.” 

They continue on their way, both silent now except for the occasional innocuous comment. On reaching the hostel she enters quickly without saying goodbye and makes straight for her room, where she loses herself immediately in a long dreamless sleep.

With a sudden start she is woken up sometime just after midnight, and is inexplicably drawn to the window where she sees a dark form emerge from the shadows to stand in the bright light of a full moon. A tremendous urge, over which she is powerless to fight, compels her to fly downstairs in a wild ecstasy and out into the night. After opening the door to step outside, she stands for a moment embracing the still warm air. Suddenly she becomes aware of a misty essence like an ethereal wisp of smoke oozing out from her body towards the mysterious form standing tall and bathed in silver light. 

Then she recognizes that it is Mario in a black cloak, sort of looking like a magician. He is making strange movements with his hands, as though pulling an invisible chord towards himself. A minute later she experiences a nauseous faintness as if all the life force is being dragged from her body. 

Suddenly she knows what he is doing. Like a vampire sucking blood, he is stealing her energy, feeding on her vitality, growing strong from her own living essence. No wonder she has been so chronically weary for so long! No wonder she has grown weak and sickly and no longer feels like her old self.

Just wanting to get away from him she quickly turns round to go back into the safety of the hostel, when she catches her reflection in the moonlight shining on the glass door. Astounded, she cannot believe the image gaping back at her, thin and hollow like a skeleton with enormous eyes stark and staring. Identical in every way, it is a perfect replica of the bloodless creature that screamed at them in the street just a few days ago. Surely that cannot what she has become now!

A soul shattering scream pierces the night air. Olivia realizes it has come from her own throat, and she screams again. She screams and screams and screams as though she will never ever be able to stop.


Bio

Originally from Yorkshire, growing up in the untamed countryside of the Bronte's where she enjoyed the romantic literature of that period, particularly that which gave voice to the restless spirit seeking the mysteries of its own source. This led her into the field of eastern philosophy and mysticism, and for many years she has been a keen student of Theosophy, as introduced to the West by H.P. Blavatsky.