The Intaglio Ring

David Fellowes appraised the red flock wallpaper, the proliferation of brass curios and other elaborate artefacts. They reminded him of an Indian restaurant that he frequented in his student days. It had been cheap but certainly not cheerful, although the gloom of its interior had at least provided its patrons with the benefit of uncertainty; it was sometimes better not to know what you were eating.
"Good evening," a dark voice interrupted his recollections, "you must be the young man who wishes to interview me."
David rose, proffered his hand to the gentleman who had just entered, who, despite his advanced years, had eyes that displayed a sharp intellect. David was meeting, for the first time, the world's leading authority on the paranormal. He was surprised to find the man's hand - delicately long fingered and as smooth-skinned as a woman's - to be surprisingly strong. And dry: the skin felt almost brittle.
"Doctor Astrith, I must thank you for seeing me. As the acknowledged expert in your field, I know…."
"Please do sit down," the Doctor smoothly interrupted, settling himself gracefully into one of two high-backed wing chairs that straddled the fireplace, indicating that David should take the other.
"Before you begin," Astrith continued, "I must tell you that I know why you are here. This is not to be a straightforward interview, is it?"
David began to demur; then he caught the other's eye, knew that there would be no point in trying to deceive him.
"No," he said, "I have come here to ask you about something."
"You purchased a ring, and you want to know about it."
David agreed. He had no idea how it was possible for the other man to know that he had the ring, but it made things less complicated.
"Tell me, Mr Fellowes, what it is that you do."
David was momentarily perplexed. Astrith knew that he was there to interview him for the local press: a cheap little rag called the Hamdenbury Times.
"I'm a writer. A journalist. A free-lance." Each description of his profession seemed less dignified than the one before.
"What you perceive to be the lowest of the low," Astrith remarked.
Oddly, David was not offended by this. "What you want to be is a writer of books. And, of course, to have the fame, money and prestige that goes with it."
David made no reply.
"And now," said Astrith, "the ring. What have you heard about it?" He settled himself back into the armchair, lowered his eyes and waited.
"I've heard," began David, timorously, "that it has strange properties."
"And you want me to tell you what they are."
"It should make for an interesting article," said David, recovering his confidence as he returned to familiar ground, "Readers love that sort of thing: a hint of the supernatural."
"Do you know what happened to the first man to have owned the ring?"
David shook his head.
Astrith smiled. "He had spent much of his life in India." He gazed around the room, indicating the many ornaments that filled it. "An interesting place. A place to fall in love with. But the man was not in love with India, but with something, someone, else. He longed to return to England to be with the woman whom he wished to make his wife. She had, for many years, taken care of her invalid father. He was confined to a wheelchair, his legs of no use since a climbing accident. Now he was dead. So the man returned, hoping to make her his bride."
"And did he?" asked David.
"You know, of course, what the ring promises?"
"I have been told that it will give you what you most want in life."
"Yes," answered Astrith, "but it demands something in return. You must give up something of equal value."
"But what does that mean?"
"In the case of the man in love," said the Doctor, "it meant something he perhaps could not have foreseen. You see, the young woman - although by now not so young - did not accept his proposal straight away. She asked for one week to make up her mind. On the day that he was to go to her to find out her answer, the man had an accident. He fell under the wheels of a carriage. His legs were crushed."
David's face paled.
"Oh, she married him. He was bedridden, of course, and the marriage unconsummated, but for the next twenty years, until the day he died, she took great care of him. He was just like a father to her. "
"But the whole thing could just have been coincidence."
"Indeed. Anyway, the ring was sold. The widow needed money, and the ring was worth a lot, offering as it did the mysterious promise of fulfilling one's ultimate desires. Its next owner was a very rich woman; a woman who had everything she could want, except a child. Her husband, a very wealthy industrialist, had given her clothes, jewels, houses; and she, although having no love for children herself, wished to give him an heir. Within a month of receiving the ring, she knew she was with child. A boy."
David was afraid to ask. What could be of equal value to a child?
"Her husband, considerate as always, insisted that she should not have the worry of rearing the boy, so he employed a nanny. A beautiful young woman, graceful but strong-willed. She had so much in common with the child's father: he was what is nowadays called a self-made man. When their son was only five months old, the industrialist ran off with the child's nanny. The woman kept the boy, of course. But she did not keep the ring."
"What happened next?"
"The next one to benefit from its remarkable properties won it in a card game. He was, so it is said, an inveterate gambler. He had always wanted one big win on a horse; one that he, himself, owned. Seven days after acquiring the ring he won a racehorse in a game that I believe involved raindrops running down a windowpane. He spent all his time, and most of his money, training the horse. And, as you would expect, it was entered in a race, not too far from here: the most prestigious contest of horsemanship in the racing calendar."
"And it won?"
"Oh, yes," said the Doctor, "It won. Unfortunately it fell just past the winning post. It had to be destroyed. Its owner was overcome with grief. His wife, wearied by years of her husband's gambling, left him the next day, taking their two children with her. She was right when she said that he loved the horse more than he loved them."
"What did he do?"
"He killed himself. I do not know if you would consider the life of a man to be of equal value to that of a horse? And now," Astrith continued, "you have the ring."

"How did you know?"
His host smiled. "You want to be a writer."
David did not reply.
Astrith indicated the books on his shelves. "Do you see the row of books bound in red leather?"
David recognised them immediately: the work of an influential and prolific novelist, winner of every major writing award. It was said the author was now a recluse, rejecting all human contact.
"Do you mean …?"
"A friend of mine. He owned the ring some years ago. And, yes, he achieved everything he had set out to do."
"What happened to him?" David steeled himself to ask.
"Do you wish to be a writer more than anything else in this world, Mr Fellowes?"
David nodded. The Doctor reached over to retrieve a long iron poker and began prodding the fire, watching as its flames rose, flickering faintly amidst the room's darkening shadows, their golden glow reflected in his fathomless eyes.
"Then," he said, looking up at his guest, a sardonic smile distorting his lips, "are you sure you really want to know?"


Copyright © 2008 by Cynthia Allen