Jane Marie, the Living Corpse

Jane Marie was like a raven. Sleek black hair that fell below her waist and always stuck flat on her scalp. Her eyes, surrounded by shadow, were a dark void that told nothing. Perhaps the only quality that granted her some “liveliness” was her brightly fair complexion – though that is merely an opinion, as the locals had always murmured about a ghost that haunted the riverbank by the Bradbury family’s estate.

But she was no ghost. Kieran knew that well, better than anyone. The moonlight reflected against the subtle lapses of the water, Jane Marie sat in the grass with a diary in her lap, and a canvas stood in front of him. Each stroke of his paintbrush purposeful and delicate, he captured everything he desired for his work – from the way a gentle wind would blow through her straight strands, to the slightest, barely noticeable twitch of her lips when she saw him frown.

“Do you think I’m strange, Kieran?” Jane Marie asked.

“Everyone does,” he said after leaning forward to hear her.

“I don’t mean to be.”

“Yes, I’m sure you don’t.”

He set down his brush and palette, observing his creation. A young woman with wings matching the night, gazing out at the river. He gave it a pleased nod, then brushed himself off from the dirt. As usual, at least according to his own mind, it was perfect. Except, maybe too perfect, bordering on a façade.

“If only you were as you are in my art, then I believe you would’ve been married by now,” Kieran said.

How his words affected her, or anyone’s for the matter, was hard to determine by expression. Her face remained mostly the same in any situation, against any statement. “Are you implying I am unpleasant to look at?” she asked.

Kieran studied her. Tired and sickly appearing, but despite it, she still possessed an air of grace, and the soft yet elegantly defined features of her face were nothing less than lovely.

“No, but in my paintings,” he points to the canvas, “I do not portray you as an empty vessel.”

Jane Marie, book in hand, crawled to the other side of the easel, examining the painting closely. She looked mesmerized by the glistening river and countless stars dotted across the sky – when actually, she gave off no impression whatsoever.

“But you told me that was a good thing.”

Kieran sighed. “For art, Jane Marie. Art. It’s a lot easier to create from a blank surface,” he picked up the completed picture – carefully, as if it were a newborn child. He wouldn’t dare make the smallest smudge on the fresh paint. “In person, though… It’s not very desirable.”

“I see. Well, I don’t mean to be.”

“Right, of course you don’t.”

Lanterns lined the dirt road leading back to the estate, shedding a faint, amber glow into the atmosphere. Moths danced around the light, in rhythm with the chirping of crickets. It was a still night along the forest path, carriage tracks on the ground the only remnant of the day’s hustle. They likely carried things such as spices, silks, fragrances, or valuable antiques – those were the typical deliveries shipped from the Bradbury Manor to the neighboring cities afar.

“The Lamberts,” Jane Marie said.

“Yes? What about them?”

“I overheard from my mother. They’re visiting the Master and Mistress tomorrow.”

“Well, it is about that time of year…” He said wearily.

“Henry Lambert is a connoisseur of the arts. So they say.”

“I’m well aware,” he glanced down at her, looking rather cross, before he returned his focus to the winding road ahead. “But I have no interest in showing him anything.”

“You believe you aren’t talented,” she stated.

With a scoff, Kieran said, “No, no. But to impress a Lambert…” he took another look at his picture, “your skills need to be beyond perfection. Special, astonishing, unworldly.”

“I think your art is nice. If that counts.”

It was a compliment, yet her stiff, awkward manner of speaking made it seem ingenuine. At the beginning of their “partnership,” such a tone would offend Kieran, and many a one-sided arguments were had – but eventually, he understood her words were not meant to shame or mock him, as he originally thought.

“I’m flattered, but ‘nice’ isn’t going to cut it. You’ve never seen the Lamberts’ manor, have you?”

“No. Mother has never taken me on her trips with the Mistress.”

He nodded. “In that case, that explains why you think I have a chance.”

“What is the manor like?”

“A dream,” he said longingly.

Kieran had only seen it once, over ten years ago when he was just a boy. One step through the archway, and he entered a world he never knew existed. Gilded carvings graced the intricately built walls and columns, the rooftops neared the clouds, and the stone barrier encircled a lush, thousand-acre yard, filled with enchanting gardens and exotic pets.

The interior was just as marveling. Ornate furnishings rested on marble while crystal chandeliers hung from sky-high ceilings. The spiraling staircases were as if crafted by fairies, and each wide floor that they led to had a balcony, where young Kieran could freely gaze at either the bustling city or numerous hills in the distance.

“It seems excessive,” Jane Marie said once Kieran had finished his drawn-out monologue. “Why so much gold?”

“Excessive?” He said scornfully. “Maybe to you, but to the wealthy, it’s just enough. A life of luxury… What’s there not to want?”

“The Bradburys are wealthy too. They don’t live like that.”

He shook his head. “If your definition of ‘wealth’ is hanging by a thread, then yes. It’s only a matter of time before they finally file for bankruptcy.”

“What would happen to the estate?”

“Sold, most likely. Not to mention the Bradburys would be frowned upon in high society even more.”

“That wouldn’t be good,” she said plainly.

He gave her a frustrated look. “I assumed you of all people would’ve cared more.”

“But I do care—"

“Really? You sure aren’t convincing about it.”

Kieran’s eyes drifted down to the diary secured under her arm. When he first saw her writing in it, he was surprised she even had thoughts worth noting down.

“I expected better of you, Kieran,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s rude and indecent to stare at a woman’s body.”

“I wasn’t looking at your body!” He shouted. A bird was frightened out of its nest, flapping its wings into the sky. “I was looking at that book you always keep with you.”

“Oh. I see. Why?”

“Because you’re such a shell, that I wonder what could possibly be going through your mind. Is it not just quiet?”

“You’re calling me dumb.”

“No, not dumb. Just—”

“Hallow or without substance. A living corpse, I’ve been called that quite a lot.”

“Can you blame us? We aren’t left with anything else to think of you.”

They walked in silence. Perhaps he was too harsh, he thought. But as usual, if Jane Marie was insulted at all, there was no indication. Besides, he had only said the truth, the agreed upon consensus of everyone who dwelled by the Bradburys – Jane Marie was a mystery, who was impossible to unfold.

After about twenty minutes, the path branched off into three sections. The left was further into the woods, where the hut of the “Old Man” – as they called him, for he never gave his name – stood, the center led to the village, and the right was the grounds of the estate. Kieran proceeded onward to the middle, but before he was out of sight, Jane Marie called to him.

“Would you like to read it?” She asked.

Perplexed, Kieran turned around.

“My diary,” she elaborated, “Do you want to read it?”

“You really are odd, Jane Marie… A diary is meant to be personal, you know – yet you’re willing to hand it out just like that?”

“Only to you.”

“And you trust me enough?”

“I’ve known you for nine years.”

“As my muse, and a fellow child of a person indebted to the Bradburys... But as people, we might as well be strangers.”

“I disagree.”

He laughed, and knew not what to make of the matter. For a moment, he thought she was joking, except trying to be funny was completely uncharacteristic for Jane Marie. “Do you even know a thing about me? Humor me, what’s my favorite color?”

“Blue. Specifically, the shade of the cornflowers in the field. But only the ones with a tinge of purple,” she immediately answered. “What is my favorite color?”

Kieran was taken aback by her unexpected accuracy, but he didn’t let it show too much. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he muttered, “I didn’t even know you liked colors…”

“Pink. The kind that shows up at sunset.”

“Pink? I’ve never even seen you wear pink.”

“No. It looks too nice,” she held out the diary and asked again, “Well?”

The idea was irresistibly intriguing – to finally know what truly hid in the depths of Jane Marie’s mind, even though he was still hesitant to believe there was anything significant. Such an opportunity may never come again. Hand outstretched, he approached her, but right as his fingers were about to touch the leather cover…

“There you are! I’ve been searching all over for you!”

It was from the angry voice of a middle-aged woman, marching down the right path.

“Mother—” Jane Marie said while she retracted the diary from his reach.

Kieran lifted his palm to greet her. “Good evening, Miss Walker.”

“Miss” Walker scowled as she grabbed her daughter’s arm. “You’re a very forgetful lad, Kieran. Even after so many years…”

“Ah – my apologies, Mrs. Walker.”

It felt incorrect to call her that. Her husband had divorced her long before Kieran and his family had arrived, so he never knew her as a married woman. Regardless, she strongly insisted on being referred to as a “Mrs.” Some said she was still in love, others that she wanted to avoid the stigma as much as possible.

“And as for you,” Mrs. Walker said to Jane Marie. “How much more will I have to repeat myself? Indoors at 8 P.M. on the dot, no exceptions. What time is it now, Kieran?”

“8:15,” Kieran said after checking his watch.

“Yet here my daughter is, wandering in the night!”

“It’s my fault, Mrs. Walker. The painting had taken longer than usual.”

“No matter, Jane Marie should’ve spoken up about it. Come on now, girl, I have a great deal to say to you!”

With that, Mrs. Walker dragged away Jane Marie to the estate. It was weird, Kieran thought. Very weird. Though perhaps some concern was warranted. There had been stories of missing people, along with accusations against the Old Man for poisoning – his herbal substances of unknown origins, combined with his bizarre murmurings, definitely didn’t help.

But still, Jane Marie was an adult, certainly too old for a curfew and capable of making her own choices. However, Kieran never questioned their dynamic, preferring to mind his own business rather than meddle.

On the other hand, he missed it. He doubted Jane Marie would ever offer him the chance to read it again, and he didn’t want to ask – he knew they weren’t close enough for that. There was no use in pouting over it. The village was ahead, where his family waited for him.