Zachary felt Howard’s firm hand on his shoulder. He stumbled as he was jostled by the person next to him, a grinning Londoner seemingly as wide as he was tall; then he heard Howard’s voice in his ear. “We need to get closer,” Howard shouted, jabbing his finger in the air in the direction of the head of the crowd, where Nathanael St. André was holding forth.
They worked their way forward as best they could without resorting to ruthless elbowing. As they approached Nathanael, the volume of the surrounding crowd began to drop, as those immediately close to the surgeon bent their ears to hear his exuberantly delivered monologue: “—more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies, to paraphrase the great man, yes? I have always regarded myself as a man who balances pride in the depth of his hard-won knowledge with humility, born of an awareness of how little he knows compared to the Lord, who knows all. How wondrous it is to see one’s expectations of our very existence defied so plainly! No word short of miraculous can truly describe what we—John! Look here: it’s John Howard, my friend and colleague, and his young assistant. Come here. Come!”
As Howard stepped forward, Nathanael greeted him with a hearty clap on his back. “I must acknowledge to you all, and it is in fact my pleasure to acknowledge, that the first tentative steps along the path on which we now find ourselves were taken by this local gentleman, who, in the absence of the kinds of resources available to myself, relied on his native instincts to carry him as far as he could. Moreover, he was wise enough to summon aid from afar when those instincts reached the limits of their usefulness. As the leader of the team of surgeons who now cares for this poor benighted woman, I offer all of you the same promise that I have offered this woman and her family—that all of us will persist in our attempts to comprehend the monstrous malady visited upon her; that we will not rest until it is cured—”
Zachary heard his name shouted, and turned to look behind him, where he saw his father waving at him, trapped behind two strangers from out of town. Working his way backward through the throng as his master took up a reluctant position directly behind Nathanael, he greeted Crispin, whose lips were pinched close as he stared at the backs of St. André and Howard ahead of him.
“You’re well, son?” Crispin said. “I haven’t seen you in a number of days.”
“I’m fine,” said Zachary, puzzled by his father’s pretended equanimity in the midst of this situation. “And yourself?”
“I find myself wondering about poor Mary,” said Crispin. “I haven’t been in attendance at her past few births, though I’ve heard news of them: whispers in the pews. But I am no longer notified of these events directly.” There it was: a familiar fatherly anger, peering out from beneath the politesse.
Zachary thought of what to say and rejected the first thing that came to mind: that he had found out about the birth in the same manner as everyone else, from the cheers in the streets. (Why had Joshua Toft not notified John Howard that this birth was coming, as had been his previous practice? How had St. André received the news without John knowing? For that matter, how had he seemingly gotten out of the house before John and Zachary were even awake? So many questions.)
“Too many preachers spoil the conclave, I suppose,” said Crispin, sparing Zachary the effort of an explanation. “Though I do—I did—serve a purpose! Listen to these people: the word God falls from their lips so easily. But to what ends are his name being used? Who benefits from all…this?” With a wave of his hand he indicated the whole gathering, and with that his unspoken wish that all these people might someday find themselves assembled beneath a church roof instead of the open sky.
Zachary thought of the afflicted woman herself, whom he hadn’t seen with his own eyes in over a week, only getting as far in recent days as the front room of the Toft house—the more surgeons who became involved in the case, the more Howard found himself distanced from it, and Zachary along with him. Somehow, the matter of her health had become less relevant with each passing day. The last (and, really, the only) attempt made at curing her had been the phlebotomy, which had accomplished nothing; since then, all involved had decided to watch and discuss, as if mere observation and conversation were enough. It occurred to him that, though they would never admit it to themselves, those in the crowd around him might desire the woman’s illness, want it to be prolonged, want its renown to grow, so those now in the middle of this small procession might soon find themselves near the head of a larger one; that the procession, rather than serving the woman, or the God whose name it so easily invoked, might serve, in the end, only itself.
* * *
*
As Zachary pushed forward through the crowd once again to rejoin John, the group began to veer off the main road toward the Toft house, where a number of people had already settled down with blankets in the dead grass, having arrived ahead of the rest to stake out spots at dawn. Standing out in front of the house as the procession began to disperse in the yard was Joshua Toft, arms folded as if he were guarding the people inside from overly curious trespassers. Behind him, John and Zachary could see Manningham (how had he already arrived here, even ahead of even St. André?) and, even more surprisingly, Cyriacus Ahlers (when on earth had he come back from London? Why on earth was he here once again?), each peering around Joshua, out at the crowd. (Was there a conspiracy to keep John Howard ignorant? Had it been openly articulated, or was it the result of people acting independently and intuitively, in silence, out of guilt?)
Nathanael St. André broke free from the crowd and strode across the empty stretch of yard between the gathering of onlookers and the house, with Laurence, John, and Zachary trailing along behind him. When Nathanael reached the door, Joshua stood aside, letting him and Laurence pass; but to John’s consternation, Joshua chose to reoccupy the door once the London surgeon and his assistant had gone through, and stared down at John as if looking straight through him, or not recognizing him.
John looked up at Joshua with bafflement, and then over his rather large shoulder at Nathanael, who seemed to have found something extremely interesting to examine on one of the empty walls of the dim room beyond. Zachary, behind them all, caught Cyriacus’s eye, saw clear pity there, and felt a brief, intense stab of shame, because he knew that Cyriacus was correct to find him pitiable.
Cyriacus spoke Joshua’s name, and Joshua turned to look at him: a quick conversation conducted entirely in glances took place between the men inside, and then Cyriacus said, at last, “He’s one of us.” As Joshua stood aside and let John and Zachary enter, Cyriacus offered Zachary a weak flash of an apologetic smile.
“So wonderful to see you once again,” Nathanael said to John with a forced warmth, as if he had not just greeted John minutes before, as if Nathanael and Laurence were not lodging in John’s home. Nathanael and Manningham seated themselves easily in the room’s two chairs, leaving the rest standing; from the lying-in room, Margaret Toft entered, squinted at each of them in turn (reserving a singularly hateful stare for Sir Richard), and said, “I think she’s about to begin. In a few moments, perhaps.” Then she withdrew.
“Nathanael,” said Manningham, “would you like to do the honors?”
“Um—certainly,” said Nathanael. “I thought that perhaps John might also—”
“I’m sure you can handle this alone, or with Laurence’s assistance,” said Cyriacus. “Besides, I would like to inform John about…recent events, while we have the time and the relative quiet.”
“I expect there will be few such opportunities from here forward,” continued Manningham.
With a sigh, Nathanael rose. “Come, Laurence,” he said, as the men heard Mary’s first hoarse, quivering wail through the wall.
As Nathanael and Laurence stepped into the lying-in room, Cyriacus edged over to gently close its door behind them; then, gesturing for John to sit in the empty chair, the remaining men in the room huddled closer together, and began
to speak quickly in low voices as the screams in the other room grew louder and longer.
* * *
*
“I’ve returned from London,” Cyriacus Ahlers said, “where I had an audience with the king himself, two days past. I stood before his throne and presented him with the evidence of my observations; I displayed to him the rabbits preserved in spirits that I borrowed from you, John. I merely described what I saw, without making pronouncements on its truth or falsehood.”
“And his curiosity only deepens,” said Manningham.
“Based on his response, I believe him skeptical,” said Ahlers, “but he does not dismiss the possibility outright that all is indeed as it seems. In fact, he has requested—and we have not informed Nathanael of this yet—that Mary Toft be transported to London, and given lodging somewhere.”
John made to jump out of his chair, then stopped himself. “So that he may observe her firsthand?”
“He, or more likely, one of his agents. Though it is difficult to say—he is a creature of whim, even if each of his whims has the force of command. Also, London’s nobility finds the woman particularly interesting. They are powerful, but provincial, and have no desire to leave the city; therefore, Mary Toft must come to them.”
“You have no idea the extent to which the minds of Londoners can be captured by dazzling baubles,” said Manningham.
“They’ve gone mad,” said Ahlers, shaking his head.
“With a particular variety of madness that sometimes leads people like our erstwhile colleague to seek fame and profit,” said Manningham, nodding toward the lying-in room.
“You’ve attended the woman the longest,” said Ahlers. “She will have a comfort with you that she does not with us.”
“We need you to accompany us, to London, when she leaves,” said Manningham. “The day after tomorrow. We will leave a day ahead of you to make arrangements for your lodging. We must take Mary with us. The king will not be kept waiting; capricious though he may be, it is not wise to gamble that he will forget his desires.”
(And as Zachary’s face lit up, Ahlers leaned over to him and whispered, “You are coming, too,” with a benevolent smile.)
* * *
*
From the lying-in room came a long, labored howl. “They’re almost done,” said John.
“You must beware Nathanael St. André!” hissed Ahlers to John. “Given the chance, he will center himself and push you to the margins.”
“I must admit,” said Manningham as he looked up at Ahlers, “that he is charismatic in a way that we are not.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Ahlers.
“I merely speak the truth,” Manningham shot back as the yells in the other room wound down to silence. “In the eyes of the common man, even the longest, most precious titles count for little against a man who cuts a fine figure. And he is a shapeshifter: a common man when it pleases him to appear as such, and one of the elite when it does not. His opinions change as the wind. If this Toft phenomenon does prove beyond a doubt to be other than it seems, he may act against the evidence, to stoke the public’s collective delusion instead of dampening it—whichever action he believes best serves his own ends.”
“I see your point,” said Ahlers. “We are all vulnerable, then; we must, the three of us, take care—”
At that, the door to the lying-in room slammed open, bouncing backward on its hinges with a crying creak. His eyes straight ahead of him, Nathanael St. André marched forward, toward the door out of the house; Laurence chased behind, his face all worry and horror.
Nathanael’s hands were stained red to the wrists; in his hand he held a bundle of burlap, heavily spattered with crimson.
“Too much blood,” said Manningham.
“Good Lord,” said John, rising.
“Cyriacus and I will handle this,” Manningham said. “John: watch Nathanael.” With haste, the other two surgeons went to attend to the patient.
Together, John and Zachary followed Nathanael outside, to see him standing before the assembled congregation, quiet spreading through the crowd from front to rear as people ceased their conversation and turned their gazes toward him. Those seated on blankets began to come to their feet; children eagerly approached him, the carefree native Godalming boys mixed in with the Londoners, who, like Laurence, resembled middle-aged men in miniature.
From behind, Zachary saw Nathanael go through the motions of unwrapping the bloody cloth he held; then he reached into it with one hand, rummaged and tore, and raised that hand to the sky, as if in triumph.
In the hand held aloft was a rabbit’s head, severed and misshapen, its skull crushed.
“Gentlemen! Ladies!” Nathanael bellowed. “The miracle.”
And he tossed the head to the gaggle of boys.
One of the Londoners caught it by leaping into the air, his agility overcoming the encumbrance of his clothing, but upon landing he was greeted with a quick punch in the jaw by a Godalming boy that surprised him into tossing the head out of his hands. Two more Godalming children pounced on the head before it hit the ground, tussling and coming to blows, tearing the thing apart.
“This is all wrong,” John said in a shaking voice, so softly that only Zachary could hear. “All of this has gone wrong.”
As the assembled crowd began to cheer, the roar growing, and Laurence turned to look back at Zachary with an expression that was a strange mix of terror and glee, Nathanael began to dig into the flayed-open rabbit corpse with his fingers and fling bits of it at the boys before him, who were already beginning to bruise each other in battle: the guts; the feet; the pelt; the heart.
PART THREE.
| CHAPTER XV.
MARY’S SOLILOQUY.
Listen to me: this hurts.
* * *
*
For reasons known only to the Lord, when I reached the age of thirteen he chose to grace me, all at once, with wide hips, bountiful breasts, and the face of a fool. (No need for you to lie to me out of pity: any mirror will show me this weak chin, this slack jaw, these cow’s eyes.) Ever since then, men have seen me as a vessel meant only for making smaller versions of themselves, and whatever words I’ve spoken to them have gone unheard: I might remark on the conversation these surgeons are having between themselves, here on this rickety wagon headed for London, and they would act as if my sentences had no more meaning than birdsong, or the howl of a dog hit by a thrown rock. In a man’s eyes I am meant for motherhood, and that only; otherwise I may as well be mute. Tongue cut out; lips sewn shut.
* * *
*
Poor Joshua. Ha—poor me when I saw him naked for the first time, for when I laid eyes on him in all his lack of glory, I foresaw a childless, pleasureless future. Such a meager yard, I thought, could never bring about a woman’s shiver, and a man’s seed cannot find purchase in untroubled ground. And yet he gripped the thing in his hand as if its weight was a terrible burden to be borne. “I hope,” he said as he approached me, “this does not hurt.”
I let him read ignorance on my face that wedding night; I pretended his little needle was a club; his low chuckles as I lay beneath him suggested that my pained wails were convincing enough. One of God’s cruel jokes, to hang such a little thing on such a large man. But I loved him, so I lied, or I let him lie to himself.
* * *
*
That need to hurt as one does nature’s duty; that need to hear it hurts. That need of his to occupy the space inside me, claim it as his own. Tiny one-eyed miner barely able to breach the cave’s entrance, and yet if he didn’t get screams from me one way, he’d get them another. Back of the hand against a cheek: a strange kind of kiss.
I learned soon enough that when he looked at me in a certain way, I was to huddle in a corner and mewl; then he would loom over me while I stood in his shadow for a few moments. In the end, he’d
turn away from me and leave me be, with a look over his shoulder to let me know that, at the last, his mercy had only narrowly won out over his disgust.
But in daylight? The two of us together? Oh, sunshine and dreams then; melodies and candy. He had a way of shrinking himself when he wanted, to gain another’s confidence—his big meaty hands suddenly become delicate; his voice needing an ear trumpet to understand; his very shadow fading, as if sunlight would shine through every person so weak. A man half his size would look up at him and think himself a giant. And, shameful to say, his sorcery works on me as well, no matter how many times I see the trick. His whimper never fails to drive from my mind the memory of his curse, and once I forget, I am ready to be cursed again.
Am I bitter? Yes. Pained: yes. Cursed: yes. But do not think that I do not know how to love. I love him, even now. Tell me I’m a fool and I’ll spit in your eye.
* * *
*
Despite the long-held lore of midwives, I was great with child soon enough. (Though I was rarely brought off when in Joshua’s arms: I thank you for your concern.) James, that first child, had my eyes embedded in his father’s face—somehow in a young boy the eyes I despise when they look back at me in a mirror become beautiful. As he grows older, they will soften a face that would otherwise be too hard.
Mary Toft; or, the Rabbit Queen Page 16
