by Mark Hodder
Isabel rose. “What a horrible noise.”
“The poor thing knows the unseasonal heat doesn’t long survive after the sun goes down,” Burton said. “It’s predicting a chilly night.”
“I’ll fetch an extra blanket.”
“No, don’t. I hate to feel swaddled.”
She joined him in bed. “Shall we read?”
He nodded. She passed him his Robert Buchanan. He opened it at random, but his eyes immediately drifted away from it to the window. He gazed out at the splattering of stars. For three hours, his mind wandered. He remembered, from his childhood, stories about Spring Heeled Jack, a supernatural creature that assaulted women before leaping away; he thought about Mrs. Angell, his housekeeper in the old days; he kicked himself for not including his friend Richard Monckton Milnes among the many people to whom he’d written these few days past; he mourned over the death of his colleague, friend, and spiteful enemy, John Hanning Speke, though the man’s demise had occurred more than a quarter of a century ago.
At half past two, he said to Isabel, “When we are back in England, I have it in mind to purchase a clockwork servant. They are expensive to buy but cost nothing to run, so money is saved eventually.”
“A what?”
“A clockwork servant. One of Babbage’s creations.”
She put down her book and placed her fingers over his. “The mathematician fellow? I’ve not heard of them. Clockwork? Are you sure?”
“Edward has one. He named it Grumbles. Very efficient.”
“Edward who?”
“My brother.”
Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened. “Dick, your brother is in an asylum. He has been since ’fifty-nine. You remember the head injury he received in India? He was never the same after that.”
He knew she was right. He knew she was wrong. He felt confused.
Burton tried to draw a breath, but it wouldn’t come. He croaked, “Open a window. There’s no air in the room.” Suddenly, pains were shooting through his limbs. He thrashed helplessly. A moan was torn out of him.
Isabel held him and cried out, “What ails you so, Dick?”
With tremendous willpower, he forced himself to lie still, dropping his resistance and allowing the throbs and stabs to flow through him unchecked. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I’m recovered now.” He was unable to keep the hoarseness from his voice. “It’s just a gouty pain in my left foot. The usual thing but it took me by surprise. When did I have my last attack?”
“Three months ago. Shall I call the doctor?”
“No, don’t disturb him. He’ll be asleep. Besides, he can’t do anything for it.”
She hastened from the bed to a chest of drawers and returned with a horseshoe magnet in her hand. Pulling back the sheets, she held it to his foot. “Does it help?”
“A bit,” he lied.
Unfamiliar names ran through his mind. Trounce. Honesty. Lawless. Raghavendra. Krishnamurthy. Bhatti. Who were they? And Mrs. Angell? He’d never had a housekeeper!
“Do you remember Stoker?” he asked.
“The theatre man? Irving’s manager? Yes, of course I do. We’ve dined with him on a number of occasions.”
“I have the unaccountable belief that I knew him as a child.”
“He never mentioned it. Surely he would have. And you’ve never spoken of it before. I think your mind is playing tricks.”
“Perhaps it is. I imagine I knew Wilde, too.”
“Oscar? Great heavens above! I sincerely hope not!”
“What is wrong with me, Isabel? I feel oddly divided, as though there’s more than one of me.”
“I fear you’re having one of your old fevers. They always had that symptom. Remember when you returned from Africa stricken with malaria? For weeks you were convinced that you were two people in one body, forever at war with yourself. You used to—”
Her voice faded away. Oblivion enveloped him. From it, a vision emerged. He was in a featureless desert, squatting beside a tent, fascinated by a scarab beetle pushing a ball of camel dung alongside the fringe of the canvas. “The sun across the heavens,” he murmured. “Day and night. Light and dark. Presence and absence. Life and death. One and zero.”
When he was next aware, it was half past three and Isabel was distraught.
“I couldn’t rouse you. You were gasping for breath.”
He told another falsehood in order to comfort her. “Just a deep sleep. I was dreaming. I saw the little flat we’ll buy in London, and it had quite a nice large room in it.”
“Then we’ll make that your study,” she replied. “You can hang your swords on its wall and put your—”
She vanished into blazing whiteness as his chest tightened viciously. A thousand tortures. Agony beyond comprehension. He couldn’t even scream.
There eventually came further cognisance of time passed. Grenfell Baker’s voice sounded from afar. “Try to keep your respiration steady, Sir Richard. Here, drink this. It will offer some relief.”
Swallow. Bad taste. Pain.
“Your wife has gone for the priest.”
Priest? Priest? Bismillah! Am I dying? Help me! Save me!
He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again she was there, weeping. Knives twisted between his ribs. It was unendurable. He reached for her, weakly clawing at her arm. “Chloroform! Ether! Or I’m a dead man!”
“The doctor says it will kill you!” she wailed. “He’s doing all he knows!”
Life. Death.
One. Zero.
Music. An intricate rhythm. Curious melodies. Peculiar harmonies. The sound gripped him and dragged him through a whiteness that was everything and nothing. He fragmented. Every decision he’d ever made unravelled. All his successes and failures frayed away. He lost cohesion until nothing of him remained.
Zero. Zero. Zero.
Gathering weight.
The pressure of her arms beneath him.
No, not her arms. The ground.
Burton opened his eyes and saw a flickering orange light. Flames reflected on a canvas roof. He was in a tent.
He sat up.
El Balyuz, the chief abban, burst in. “They are attacking!” He handed Burton a revolver. “Your gun, Effendi!”
What is this? What is happening?
Pushing back his bed sheets, moving like an automaton, with no control over himself, Burton stood, put the pistol on the map table, and pulled on his trousers. Astonishingly, his body was that of a young man. He took up the gun again, looked over to Lieutenant George Herne, and grinned. Words spilled unbidden from his mouth. “More bloody posturing! It’s all for show, but we shouldn’t let them get too cocky. Go out the back of the tent, away from the campfire, and ascertain their strength. Let off a few rounds over their heads if necessary. They’ll soon bugger off.”
Recognition.
This is Berbera! My God! 1855! My first African expedition. We were attacked. I received a spear through my face. Why am I here again?
“Right you are,” Herne said. The lieutenant moved to the rear of the tent and ducked under the canvas.
Burton, occupying his own flesh like a passenger, able to observe but not influence, checked his gun. “For Pete’s sake, Balyuz, why have you handed me an unloaded pistol? Get me my sabre.”
He shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers and snatched his sword from the Arab.
“Speke!” he bellowed. “Stroyan!”
Almost immediately, the tent flap was pushed aside and John Hanning Speke stumbled in. His eyes were wild. “They knocked my tent down around my ears. I almost took a beating. Is there shooting to be done?
“I rather suppose there is,” Burton responded. “Be sharp, and arm to defend the camp.”
He felt the urge to rush forward and grip his old comrade.
I forgive you! I forgive you! Let us forget it all and start anew. It is good to see you again. So good! I never meant any of it, John. I don’t know how such enmity came between us.
&nb
sp; He was unable to do it. His body wouldn’t accept his commands. Helplessly, he waited with the others. They checked their gear and listened to the rush of men outside.
Herne returned from his recce. “There’s a lot of the blighters, and our confounded guards have taken to their heels. I took a couple of pot-shots at the mob but then got tangled in the tent ropes. A big Somali swiped at me with a bloody great club. I put a bullet into the bastard. Stroyan’s either out cold or done for. I couldn’t get near him.”
Something thumped against the side of the tent. Suddenly a barrage of blows pounded the canvas while war cries were raised all around. The attackers were swarming like hornets. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggers ripped at the material.
“Bismillah!” Burton cursed. “We’re going to have to fight our way to the supplies and get ourselves more guns. Herne, there are spears tied to the tent pole at the back. Get ’em.”
“Yes, sir.” Herne went off but almost immediately ran back. “They’re breaking through!”
Burton swore vociferously. “If this blasted thing comes down on us we’ll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”
He plunged out into the night. Somali natives were milling about, brandishing their weapons. Jostled and thumped, Burton looked over his shoulder to check the others had followed. He saw Speke emerging from the tent, saw him struck on the knee by a thrown stone, saw him flinch and stumble back.
Don’t say it! Don’t utter those damnable words!
They came anyway. Burton yelled, “Don’t step back! They’ll think that we’re retiring!”
Two short sentences—uttered without thought—that Speke would fixate upon and twist into an accusation of cowardice, inciting in him a fierce resentment, leading to betrayal and ultimately, to his death.
Despairingly, Burton turned to defend himself. He was shoved this way and that, hacking with his blade, caught up in a crush of bodies. Amid the chaos, the campfire, swollen out of all proportion, caught his eye and held it.
Suddenly, everything else dwindled from awareness and, as a javelin slid into his cheek, knocked out two molars, sliced across his tongue, and transfixed his face, he lost all physical sensation.
Flames. Only flames. There was nothing else.
Grindlays Warehouse.
In 1861, when the depth of Speke’s perfidy had become apparent, and Burton was at his lowest ebb, Grindlays burned to the ground, taking with it all the documents, costumes, artefacts, and mementoes Burton had stored there after returning from his many years of travel and exploration, depriving him of every material thing he’d ever valued. At this juncture of his life, he’d married Isabel Arundell, the only remaining constant.
He saw her now, a blazing bonfire illuminating her face, reflecting in the tears on her cheeks, making them look like rivulets of blood.
Snapping out of his trance, he walked toward her. It was a winter evening. He was back in his garden in Trieste.
“What a ghastly time I’ve had of it!” he exclaimed as he approached. “I’m sorry to have caused such a fuss. By God, I thought I was done for. Was it another heart attack? I feel perfectly healthy now. Even my rheumatism has let up.”
She didn’t respond.
“I dreamed I was back in Berbera with John Speke. A nightmare. It was extraordinarily vivid. Isabel?”
Sparks and glowing scraps of paper spiralled up through the smoke. The bonfire crackled and snapped. He watched as she reached into a carpetbag at her side, pulled a handful of letters from it, and threw them into the conflagration.
“What are you doing?”
Still no answer.
“Isabel?”
Something felt wrong.
She took a thick sheaf of paper from the bag.
His translation of The Scented Garden.
“Wait!” he cried out. “No! Don’t do that!”
Lady Isabel Burton consigned her husband’s magnum opus to the flames.
Burton shrieked as he felt it—and himself—consumed.
It was Grindlays all over again, reducing him to nothing.
White. White. White.
Zero.
Hands took form, easing out of the featureless glare, shapes congealing around them. He didn’t immediately recognise them as his own, for rather than being gnarled, liver-spotted, and transparent, they were tough and healthy and young.
A note was pushed into one of them. Raising his eyes, he saw Arthur Findlay of the Royal Geographical Society, an expression of utmost sympathy upon his face. Burton read the note, already aware of the news it bore, and reacted to it without any volition of his own.
“By God! He’s killed himself!”
John Hanning Speke—who, two years after the Berbera incident, had accompanied him into central Africa in search of the source of the Nile and who subsequently claimed to have discovered it without Burton’s help—was dead.
The Bath Assembly Rooms. 1864. This is where I was supposed to confront Speke and condemn him, humiliate him. Where I’d make him pay the price for his disloyalty. Instead, just prior to the conference, he shot himself while out hunting. An accident, perhaps. Or suicide.
Burton put the note onto the table and rose from his chair.
This is the day I was forever broken.
He heard himself say all the things he’d said on that occasion: to Findlay; to Sir Roderick Murchison, president of the RGS; and to the other members of the committee. Then he stumbled out of the room and into Isabel’s waiting arms.
She was young again. Beautiful.
Contorting emotions that made no sense at all mauled at him. How could he love and, at the same time, fear her?
“What ails you so, Dick?”
Don’t be concerned. It’s just a gouty pain in my left foot. The usual thing. When did I have my last attack?
He said, “John has shot himself.”
She fussed but he couldn’t bear to be near her. Burton needed to flee; he required space in which to think. He tore himself away, spoke to Sir Roderick, told him he’d address the waiting audience, and watched from within himself as the familiar events unfolded, as the same sentences were uttered and the turning point of his life was played out once again.
Is this my reckoning? Am I being judged?
The outer Burton escaped to a quiet room and there wept for Speke. The inner Burton wept too, the memories and replaying emotions overwhelming him. When both regained control of themselves, the one sat and wrote out a makeshift presentation concerning the valley of the Indus while the other watched through his host’s eyes and waited for the astonishing dream to end.
It kept going.
Thirty minutes later, Burton was standing at a podium in front of an audience. He saw eager faces, hungry for sensation and scandal. He began his presentation. Words spilled from his mouth and trailed away until, in the faintest of whispers, he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t continue.”
Burton fled from the stage, grabbed his coat, hat, and cane, exited the Assembly Rooms, and stumbled down the steps to the street. There, he paused, breathed deeply, and suddenly had full control of himself. Utterly amazed, he looked down at his strong 43-year-old body and whispered, “I’m alive.” He put a hand to his chest. His heart was racing but not failing. He laughed, moaned, stifled a sob, clapped a palm over his mouth, and clenched his teeth to prevent himself from hollering like a maniac. Pedestrians, dressed in the styles of three decades past, walked by and glanced curiously at him. A horse-drawn hansom clattered over the cobbles.
He looked up. Dark clouds were drifting across a blue sky, threatening to obscure it. He guessed, from the sun’s position, that it was half one in the afternoon or thereabouts.
His senses felt amplified. Everything he observed, he saw in exaggerated detail. Every sound possessed startling clarity. Odours filled his nostrils and touched the back of his tongue—burning coal, cooking food, animal waste, vegetation. Each scent brought with it a scintillating memory of days long since pas
sed.
“It can’t be real. It can’t be!”
Leaning with both hands on his cane, he fought to quell the fit of shaking that suddenly gripped him. Then it occurred to him that the building at his back was filled with newspaper journalists, all clamouring for further news of Speke’s death, all eager to question him, all bound to follow when they realised he’d exited the premises.
He hurried away.
Isabel. What about Isabel?
“We were staying at the Royal Hotel,” he mumbled. “I’ll meet her there later.”
Shock. She’d burned The Scented Garden.
How many betrayals can a man endure?
No, he wouldn’t consider that now.
Besides, if this is 1864, then I haven’t even written the bloody thing yet.
He passed a street singer who was warbling about a “four pence ha’penny cap,” turned left at a junction, and hastened along with no idea of his destination. It was enough just to walk. His muscles, joints, and bones were entirely free of arthritis, rheumatism, gout, and the myriad of other ailments that had accompanied him for so long. He felt clean and powerful. Temperament, he realised, was as much a function of the body as it was of the mind. This younger physique made him feel like a sharp blade, in contrast to the blunted edge of old age.
He gave a bark of exuberance. Passers-by stepped out of his path.
Oh! The brutal countenance of Sir—no, Captain!—Richard Francis Burton in his prime. The blazing eyes! The savage jaw! The swarthy skin and pronounced cheekbones! The scar and long Oriental moustache!
“Hah!” he bellowed at a studs-and-laces vendor.
The man threw up his hands and staggered back.
Bismillah! Control yourself!
“My dear fellow,” Burton said. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I’m a little overexcited.”
“Holy Moses! Excited is it? Blimmin’ well barmy, more like!” the vendor exclaimed. “Shoutin’ at them what’s a-mindin’ their own blimmin’ business. There ain’t no call for it.”
“Barmy? Yes, perhaps so, perhaps so. My sincere apologies. Is this 1864?”
“Is it 1864, he asks now! Of course it blimmin’ well is! What are you, escaped from the loony bin or summick?”
“In a manner of speaking, my man, that might well be the case. Good day to you.”
