Jessie stared out of the car window, swallowing the words to let mother know what a lousy idea this whole thing was. Still, even though she said nothing, Mother sensed her mood, looked at her and noticed the look on her face. She sighed and patted her hand.
“It is only for the duration of the summer, dear. Until we find a place for us to stay.”
They had left their old home behind in the middle of the night, long before sunrise. They were both tired and Jessie had dozed off as they drove despite her decision to stay awake and make sure mother did not fall asleep at the wheel. They had left paved roads behind them a long time ago and were now driving a narrow sandy road. Its bumps and holes shook the car and woke Jessie. She saw the sun was about to rise.
Mother had wanted to leave so that neighbours, who knew of their difficulties in paying rent, did not see them leave.
The sun had not yet risen above the treetops behind the meadow they were now crossing. Jessie could see the swallows circling the pale sliver of the moon above the trees in the morning sky.
“It will be a hot day,” mother said, trying to sound cheerful, pointing at the swallows before the narrow road dove between the trees again. ,“There will be no rain when they are flying that high. And look! We have arrived!”
The trees gave way and the pale moon came into sight again. Mother stopped the car on the gravel in front of the house. Jesse could already feel the heat when they opened the car doors and stepped out.
The garden was lush, green and grown wild. Birds were already singing on tree branches and darting around to catch insects. It was early June, their young had yet to leave the nest, and they kept on singing to pronounce their territory. After Midsummer the nature would be silent again, just as the weather would turn hot. A heat wave in the north this early was an exception. “Apple blossoms always see at least one frost,” as Jessie’s maternal grandmother used to say. She had been born far north. Or at least that’s what mother told she had said. Grandmother had passed away when Jessie was still very young. Jessie only had a faint memory of a small thin woman with white hair.
There they stood, enveloped by a perfectly beautiful, warm summer morning. The place looked almost like a paradise, until they turned to look at the old house standing in the middle of the garden.
It was big. It was old. It had a red tile roof, now green with moss. Its windows were hiding behind the closed shutters. And it was black. Painted with the darkest black imaginable. The walls, the shutters, the pillars on the porch - black. Even the steps were black, though the center of each step had worn into a lighter shade.
Who in their right mind would paint an old wooden summer villa black? And if the fact the colour had not faded at all told anything, it had been painted recently. Looking at the delicate decorative wood cuttings, and window shutters and pillars, one would have expected to see them in a lighter colour. Perhaps with with darker shutters and doors. But now everything was pitch black. The white rambling roses climbing the porch and the pillars made it look almost gothic.
Jessie stared out of the car window, swallowing the words to let mother know what a lousy idea this whole thing was. Still though she said nothing, Mother sensed her mood, looked at her, and noticed the look on her face. She sighed and patted her hand.
“We are staying only for the duration of the summer, dear. Until I find a place for us to stay.”
They had left their old home behind in the middle of the night, long before sunrise. Jessie had dozed off soon after leaving, despite her decision to stay awake and make sure mother did not fall asleep at the wheel. They had left paved roads behind them a long time ago and were now driving a narrow sandy road. Its bumps and holes shook the car and woke Jessie. She saw the sun was about to rise.
Mother had wanted to leave so that neighbours, who knew of their difficulties in paying rent, did not see them leave.
The sun had not yet risen above the treetops behind the meadow they were now crossing. Jessie could see the swallows circling the pale sliver of the moon above the trees in the morning sky.
“It will be a hot day,” mother said, trying to sound cheerful, pointing at the swallows before the narrow road dove between the trees again. “There will be no rain when they fly that high. And look! We have arrived!”
The trees gave way and the pale moon came into sight again. Mother stopped the car on the gravel in front of the house. Jesse could already feel the heat when they opened the car doors and stepped out.
The garden was lush and grown wild. Birds were already singing on tree branches and darting around to catch insects. It was early June, their young had yet to leave the nest, and they kept on singing to pronounce their territory. After Midsummer the nature would be silent again, just as the weather would turn hot. A heat wave in the north this early was an exception. “Apple blossoms always see at least one frost,” as Jessie’s maternal grandmother used to say. She had been born far north. Or at least that’s what mother told she had said. Grandmother had passed away when Jessie was still very young. Jessie only had a faint memory of a small, thin woman with white hair.
There they stood, enveloped by a perfectly beautiful, warm summer morning. The place looked almost like a paradise until they turned to look at the old house standing in the middle of the garden.
It was big. It was old. The red tile roof was green with moss. The windows were hidden behind the closed shutters. And it was black. Painted with the darkest black imaginable. The walls, the shutters, the pillars on the porch - black. Even the steps were black, though the center of each step had worn into a lighter shade.
Who in their right mind would paint an old wooden summer villa black? The fact the colour had not faded at all revealed it had been painted recently. Looking at the delicate decorative wood cuttings, and window shutters and pillars, one would have expected to see them in a lighter colour. Perhaps with darker shutters and doors. But now everything was pitch black. The white rambling roses climbing the porch and the pillars made it look almost gothic.
“Why on earth did grandfather of all people want to leave this house to me?” Jessie asked, “Why not a nice lump sum of money so I… so we could have chosen where we wanted to live?”
Mother looked uneasy. She made herself busy lifting bags from the car, humming a little tune, as she always did when she was nervous. It was no tune Jessie would have recognised. It was like she was humming the words she was thinking. The tune had the rhythm of speech.
When mother turned to look at Jessie, she recognized her expression. Mother tried very much to look like there was nothing amiss, but Jessie could see through her act. Her eyebrows arched high, and a stiff little smile turned the corners of her mouth upwards. Jessie knew mother didn’t have a clue why grandfather had wanted to give this gloomy villa to Jessie.
“Now, dear, I think grandfather simply liked you. After all, you are his grandchild. So it is only natural that he would give this house to you in his will. It looks a bit… gloomy, yes. But we could paint it white later on. What do you think?”
Jessie did not want to say what she thought. Mother was not a person who could manage painting house walls. Even if she could tell one end of a paintbrush from the other, she had vertigo. She did not even want to look out of the windows if she was not on ground level. Not to mention that painting was expensive. Especially if you intended to cover a dark surface with lighter paint. One layer would not be enough. And besides - if this was to be a temporary arrangement, what was the point in painting a house?
As to her explanation why grandfather had given the villa to Jessie - as far as Jessie knew, she wasn’t the only grandchild. Jessie had never met her cousins, but she knew they existed. But that too was a difficult subject to mother. Another thing not to be discussed, and pretend it didn’t exist.
So, Jessie decided against saying anything. The separation from Jessie’s father had been very hard on her. And then, soon after, as there had been talk of them getting back together again, he had died in a weird accident. They had found his body under a cliff on a hiking path. Heart attack, the doctor had said. Only Jessie’s father was fit. Not overweight, didn’t drink. Went to the gym, ran long distances. And had a health check the week before, as he had finally got a good job where he was going to start in a few days. The doctor had been very pleased. Jessie’s father had visited them and told he was in top shape. Nothing wrong with his heart. Nothing at all. Soon, he would move back with them and start his new job. Life had been back to normal again for a few precious moments before collapsing into the hole of despair.
Two months after father’s funeral, grandfather had passed away as well. Jessie and her mother didn’t grieve him, as grandfather had cut off any communication with them after Jessie’s father had married her mother. He had not approved of the marriage. From what Jessie had eavesdropped her parents, grandfather wanted to control the lives of his children. He even wanted to dictate to whom they should marry. Even in this day and age he still considered it his right. A proper old despot.
And as grandfather had been ridiculously rich, his other children had done what he had wished. Probably fearing he’d write them off his will.
Jessie’s parents’ marriage had been a marriage of love. Mother had been poor as a church rat, which in grandfather’s eyes was the greatest of sins. He had lived and breathed money, gathered it everywhere he could, and had a reputation of being a ruthless business person. In his own social circles, that was probably the highest of compliments.
For years, grandfather had no contact with Jessie’s family, and he remained an unspoken subject. Then one year, Christmas cards started coming, and they were all to Jessie. Not only new Christmas cards in old style, but old Christmas cards. They looked like something out of a box in the attic. Sleigh rides, candles, baubles on branches. Father said he had probably found the stack of cards grandmother had collected. Her collection had been important to her, but as grandmother was already dead, he did not need to respect her collection. Maybe if the collection had been worth some real money…
Then birthday cards started coming too, and Jessie still had never met her grandfather. This continued for four years. Until the day when the news arrived of grandfather’s death which had been all over the media. An old millionaire’s mysterious death at his summer villa. No one knew what had happened. No culprit was ever found. He had died violently. It was like a wolf or bear had attacked him - only there were no wolves or bears in this part of the world. But the official explanation for what had caused his death had been the same as with Jessie’s father. He had died of a heart attack and wild animals had found him before his family wondered about his absence. There had been little left to bury, if the yellow press was to be believed.
He had died in the garden. This same garden where Jessie and mother were now standing. Jessie tried to find signs of the spot, but it had been weeks and the grass had grown long. That was a relief.
“Come and help me with these bags, dear.”
Whenever mother called Jessie “dear”, she knew mother was stressed. No wonder, considering the circumstances. Jessie’s father death had left them penniless. If grandfather had not willed his summer villa to Jessie, they wouldn’t have had anywhere to live. Their only shelter would have been their old car. It was that bad. They had already received a letter telling they were to be evicted for unpaid rent. And then, at the moment of deepest despair, the news of the inheritance had arrived. The villa and a small monthly allowance from a trust fund grandfather had set up for Jessie upon her birth - much to their surprise. Saved by the bell, figuratively speaking.
Jessie looked at the shadows under her mother’s eyes and held her tongue. She turned to help her mother with the bags.
“We don’t need to stay here for very long, only until we find a place to live in. And it is summer after all, it’s nice to stay in a summer villa in the middle of the countryside, isn’t it?”
“Sure, Mom. “
They had carried all their belongings to a storage facility before they had taken the long drive here. Neighbours, of course, thought that was because of the eviction. Jessie had heard them discuss what a shame it was they could not even pay for their furniture and it had to be taken back to the store. As if those old pieces hadn’t been theirs for years already.
They knew the villa came with furniture, and they had only packed food, clothing, some books, and their computers, mobiles, and pads with them. Mother had tried to make a living as a freelance writer. Before meeting Jessie’s father, she had studied history and written articles to newspapers. She was now trying to get her articles published again.
Mother put her university studies on hold when she got pregnant with Jessie and intended to continue later. But she never did because they needed to pay the rent and she got a job as a telemarketer. As soon as they heard of Jessie’s inheritance, she had asked Jessie if she could quit her job. Jessie was more than happy to say yes. It was a tough job - everyone seemed to dislike telemarketers and he could see how depressed mother was after each day’s work.
They climbed the steps to the porch, past the carved black pillars. The carvings were odd too - symbols Jessie did not recognise. They did not look like they were original carvings, but something added much later. Thick black paint covered everything.
“Where is that key?”
Mother fumbled through her pockets. She always wore clothes with plenty of pockets full of stuff, besides an overstuffed bag always hanging from her shoulder. In the bag were loads of notebooks and pens, as mother kept the dream of becoming a historian alive. She made notes of historical details, each to a notebook of a specific time period. She was so used to carrying the heavy bag she apparently did not even think of dictating her notes or using only one notebook or folder, from which she could have transferred her notes to the separate ones. Her interest in history was all over the place and Jessie never understood what was she going to do with all her notes.
Jessie looked at the plaque over the door. Black Land, it said. Who in their right mind would call a summer villa Black Land? Well, as it was painted black, there was some logic there, but shouldn’t the villa be called Black House or Black Cottage or something along those lines, then?
The key was in the third pocket mother searched. One big heavy key that looked like it was made of iron. The lock on the front door of the villa also looked positively medieval.
Jessie somehow expected the door to be stiff and the lock rusty, but the key turned easily. The door swung open soundlessly, and they stepped inside grandfather’s summer villa.
Jessie turned to look back before they stepped in to the hallway. Now that they were standing much higher, she wondered if she could see better where grandfather’s body had been. But there was nothing to see - there were no signs of any police activity anymore. Also, the plot was so big and fenced that the press wouldn’t have been able to get in to the area after the news broke out, even if they had found it. Grandfather had kept the location of his summerhouse a secret to most people.
Grandfather’s body – or the remains of it – had been removed before the news of his death spread and there had been no pictures to reveal where it had been. Mother had also wanted to keep grandfather’s will a secret from everyone, so no one knew Jessie had inherited this place. Jessie suspected there were debtors she wanted to avoid. No one but the attorney who had told them of the will knew they were there.
Grandfather’s other children, Jessie’s uncles and aunts, had already heard what they were going to inherit. They have not been present when they met grandfather’s attorney. Jessie suspected they had to know of her inheritance, but we’re not very keen on meeting mother and Jessie. Jessie did not know what stories grandfather had told his children about them, and was not interested in finding out either.
Perhaps grandfather had eventually developed a bad conscience about breaking up with his son but was too embarrassed to confront Jessie’s father after all those years? That might have explained the Christmas and birthday cards to Jessie.
“Look!” Mother pointed.
A letter was placed on the little table under the round mirror in the hallway. Mother hurried to lift it up.
“To Jessie,“ she read the words written on it.
The words were written with an old-fashioned fountain pen. The familiar handwriting was so full of large loops it looked like a calligraphic exercise. Grandfather had never been a timid man, and his handwriting reflected his self-image.
Under these words were scribbled other words with what looked like a dull pencil. The handwriting was not nearly as posh but shaky.
“Read this alone. “