by D K Girl
‘Focus an image of it in your mind, then imagine it with you. At hand.’ Mr Ahari’s voice was low and gentle. Utterly soothing. Silas’s trepidation fell beneath it and he closed his eyes. He pictured the disc of boxwood, with its stark white string resting in its box of straw. A strange, anonymous gift. His body felt light, relaxed. A smile found his lips. Silas opened his palms, as though offering up prayers to an invisible god. But it was no deity he sought, it was something far more important.
‘That’s it,’ Mr Ahari’s words lulled him deeper into a composed state. ‘Well done, Silas. Well done.’
The knock of something against his right hand saw his eyes fly open. The bandalore lay in his palm. Silas had achieved the impossible not once, but twice now.
‘I did that.’ Not a question, but a statement. ‘I did that.’ He laughed, turning the disc this way and that. Mr Ahari had not moved from his seat, Silas was sure. This was no trickery. Silas’s very own thoughts had brought the bandalore to him.
‘You certainly did.’ Now Mr Ahari rose, he padded bare-foot to the decanter, pouring himself another. ‘And the spirit named you for what you are.’
‘When she called me Ankou?’ Silas had not dared interrupt his storytelling to bother Mr Ahari with a question about the meaning of the word, but he did so now with fervour. ‘But what does it mean? What am I?’
‘An Ankou is a servant of death, Mr Mercer. An honour granted to any human who dies upon the last stroke of midnight, on the very last evening of the year. You are one such person, among many others.’
‘A servant of death?’ Silas knew not to expect a reasonable explanation for his existence, but this took his breath away. ‘I’m a Grim Reaper?’
Hadn’t Isaac said as much earlier?
‘A reaper? No, no. You are no such thing because no such thing as a Grim Reaper exists.’ Mr Ahari stood by the fire, stretching a short arm to lean against the mantle. Despite the intense heat, the man had not raised a sweat. ‘The humans do so love a good story, don’t they? As though death could reside in one form, striding about, cutting down a single soul at a time. Terribly impractical way to do it, if ever there were one. Like that Santa Claus fellow. It’s as likely that he climbs down each chimney as the Grim Reaper escorts each soul to the afterlife.’ He chuckled gently. ‘Izanami does not work herself upon this world in such a way. The goddess of death touches down upon the living like a massive ocean wave, a storm ridden wind that no man can out run, and she strikes without care or countenance. Which makes for quite a mess really. And that’s where you come in. The Ankou are not so dissimilar to street cleaners, sweeping up the debris after an event. In this case the debris are human souls. The only part of the human’s Grim Reaper story that rings true is the instrument of death you wield when you work in the goddess’s name. A scythe. And yours Mr Mercer, lies in your hand now. With your bandalore you will gather the lost souls, all those who have been left behind in the goddess’s wake for one reason or another, and send them on their true way. For one year, you shall bear the title of Ankou, until it is time for you too to pass on. Rather more permanently this time.’
‘One year?’ Silas’s stomach churned a little. ‘That is all?’
Ahari gazed into the flames. ‘Did you assume immortality?’ He chuckled. ‘I’m afraid not, my friend. Izanami has touched you, so there is no escaping it. Death will claim you, but for now she has another purpose. Relish the time. Would you like another?’
It took a moment to realise Mr Ahari referred to the brandy, and not another life.
‘No. Thank you. This is a lot to comprehend.’ Which was putting it mildly. Silas Mercer, a servant of death? It was too much to consider, what with the heat of the room and the wrench of his gut, so he focused on another aspect of what Mr Ahari had told him. A glimpse of his former life. Silas now knew he had died on New Year’s Eve. The macabre knowledge was strangely soothing, an amnesiac gleaning a fragment of a long lost memory.
‘You must be quite overwhelmed,’ Mr Ahari said. ‘But you seem a reasonable chap, and have handled everything very admirably so far. The Lady Satine would never say it out loud, but I believe she is quite impressed. Whatever doubts she may have, I believe you are allaying them. Which is just as well, for she is watching you inordinately closely.’
‘She watches me?’ Silas sat up straighter in his chair, his hand going self- consciously to his jacket to adjust the fit. ‘I was of the understanding her ladyship has not been in the country since I arrived.’
‘Since the day after you arrived, to be more precise.’ Mr Ahari turned his back to the fire and lifted the hem of his jacket, as though he wished to warm even further. ‘She is so rarely in one place long, I’m afraid. There is little rest for one such as her. I may appear to toil hard Mr Mercer, but I can assure you none work as hard at ensuring the balance is maintained in this world than her ladyship.’ Mr Ahari swept a hand towards the fire. The flames rose higher, brilliant oranges and reds that split into sections that resembled a peacock’s fanned tail. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Isaac?’
The fire cracked loudly, and behind Silas the window panes rattled with the vibration.
‘Oh don’t worry, dear boy, Isaac may not be one for conversation but he does enjoy theatrics,’ Mr Ahari said. ‘A fire elemental does have a temper, as you can imagine. Now settle down, Isaac. I’ll be done with him soon enough and you can be on your way.’ He waggled a finger at the fire.
Silas glanced between them. ‘A fire elemental?’
‘A Salamander is a grand manipulator of the flame, fire is as much a part of him as the bandalore is now a part of you.’
First the bartender was an umbrella, now the coachman was a reptile? A beady eyed salamander?
‘Are you suggesting Isaac is a lizard?’
‘Good gods man,’ Mr Ahari made play at wincing. ‘You are set for a rough journey home with talk like that. The Salamander laid claim to the name first long before those biologists stole it. Grant him reprieve, Isaac.’ He spoke at the fire. ‘He’s still much to learn.’
‘You are speaking with him…now?’
‘Yes. And he in turn will inform the Lady Satine of our conversation.’ Mr Ahari shifted, turning and rubbing his hands close to the flames.
Silas eyed the fire. Never had he felt so vulnerable than in that moment. His cottage contained a fireplace. Isaac might have watched him in his most personal moments.
‘Four elementals were placed in Lady Satine’s employ when she arrived here,’ Mr Ahari continued. ‘Suffice to say, it has been a long, long servitude for them all, but they are very convenient. Especially Isaac here. With Satine so often away, it does rather make communications easier, for there is rarely a place in the British Isles that is bereft of fire in some shape or form. I dare say I’m in some amount of trouble myself, reprimanding her about Tobias Astaroth.’ His bubbly laugh did not speak of concern for such indiscretion. ‘But why she burdens herself with that creature, I do not know, and she will not say.’
Silas shuddered at the mention of Pitch. ‘He too is in the Order?’
Mr Ahari wrinkled his nose. ‘No. That cauldron of calamity is her ladyship’s personal ward. Best to keep your distance, Mr Mercer. Tobias Astaroth tends to leave injured parties in his wake.’
That was one thing out of Mr Ahari’s mouth that Silas had no trouble believing. ‘I must say I do not wish to come across him again anytime soon.’
‘Good, good.’ He leaned towards the flames. ‘Isaac, will you allow Mr Mercer some supper? I do believe Kaneko has it ready for him.’
The fans of flame lowered, sinking until they were barely more than glowing orange embers, before bursting once more into a spray of flame. Mr Ahari waved off whatever the reply might have been. ‘Ignore him, I asked out of politeness only, which really is a waste of time when it comes to Isaac. Come, Mr Mercer you have more than earned this meal. I have some things to attend to but spend as long as you may like in the bar, drink and eat to your heart’s conte
nt. And welcome, officially, to the Order of the Golden Dawn. I do hope this will be a long and fruitful association.’
Long? Hadn’t the man just told Silas an ankou existed for but a year? Perhaps that was considered long for a second life.
‘Thank you, sir. I do have a great many questions—’
Mr Ahari pointed a finger towards the door and it swung open on silent hinges. ‘Of course, of course. And Jane is there for just that purpose, dear boy.’ He picked up Silas’s glass and set it back on the serving trolley. The meeting was clearly at an end. ‘Do feel free to speak with her whenever you need. And she will advise you of your next appointment as soon as it becomes apparent. Good evening, Mr Mercer.’
And with that he settled into the vacant armchair by the fire. A book appeared in his lap, leatherbound with tattered edges upon the pages. Spectacles were at once upon his face, not there a second ago when Silas had looked.
‘This way, Mr Mercer.’ Silas fairly yelped with surprise, whirling around to find Kaneko in the doorway. The pock-marked man waved him out of the room. ‘I’ve set up one of our private rooms for you to dine. I thought perhaps you might need some time alone with your thoughts.’
Silas was not certain three lifetimes alone with his thoughts would make any of this any more comprehensible. ‘Very kind, thank you.’
He grabbed his coat, and followed the bartender into the hall, studying the man as they went. Of course there was no sign of anything remotely umbrella like upon his person. Silas was definitely in need of a decent meal, something to clear his head. At the top of the landing he spent a moment to look back. The hallway was dim, the door to Mr Ahari’s room having closed without a sound behind them. Silas headed back down the stairs after Kaneko, and this time thankfully, the journey was a swift one. In less than half the time it had taken him to climb them, Silas descended the stairs. Returning to the narrow corridor with its dank odours, his life even stranger now than when he had last set foot here, but with one thing evident with the deep growl of his stomach. A servant of death could grow as famished as any other man.
Chapter 10
Silas could have well blamed the fish curry for his sleepless night. Exquisite as the meal Kanako prepared was, the level of spice was eye-watering and Silas was forced to down many a glass of milk in order to extinguish the burn. But he doubted even that assault on his digestion was to blame. Far more likely it was the gamut of thoughts that plagued him. The encounter with the ghost and the remarkable bandalore for one, the Atlas for another, with its endless staircase and curious owner, and the salamander carriage driver who watched him through the flames. When Silas returned home at last, some time after three in the morning, he did not set his fire. As a consequence his toes were ice and his body shook despite the layers of bedcovers he’d hauled from a chest at the foot of his bed. But he regretted nothing. The idea that Isaac might watch him slumber was enough to give anyone insomnia.
Silas groaned and pulled the covers over his head, succeeding in baring his toes to the room’s brisk ambiance. The bed might be sufficient for his height and width but the blankets were made for a smaller body than his.
In truth there was but one thing that kept him awake. The revelation of his true nature. He was an ankou. The name itself was strange and did not ring with any familiarity. But servant of death was clear enough. Silas’s reason for rebirth had been set by the goddess of death herself. Izanami. There, and there alone, lay the reason he could not calm himself into slumber despite the lateness of the night.
Silas pulled his toes back into the meagre warmth offered by the blankets. He’d yearned to know more of his renewed existence, certainly, but could never have imagined such a tale. He closed his eyes, desiring to remember the extraordinary tune of the bandalore. It escaped him now, the particular notes, but just to think upon it brought him calm. The melody was the beat of his heart, the pump of blood, the rush of air in his lungs. The very finest particles that made up his body held the tune within them. As though the song were not part of him, but in fact was him.
He shoved the covers free of his head, wishing to lay eyes upon the bandalore. Silas had placed it upon the bedside table, laying it on a linen kerchief embellished with the initials S.M, which he’d found in the chest of drawers neatly pressed and folded with several other identical pieces.
There could be no denying the completeness the bandalore’s tune had imbued in him. He’d no sooner discard the wretched thing, than he would sever his own arm. But why had Mr Ahari and Lady Satine been so clandestine about his true nature when they knew it all along? The Lady Satine had harboured doubts about Silas, Mr Ahari said, but doubts about what? And what were the consequences if he had failed at a task he knew so little of? The delirium of a sleepless night must have been upon him for he resolved to march himself to her residence, Holly Lodge, and await her return. Whenever it might be.
‘She avoids me, I’m sure of it.’ Silas muttered to his bedclothes. ‘Well, I shall refuse to brandish the bandalore until we speak, that is all there is too it.’
Even as he spoke the childish words aloud they crumbled. If the bandalore called on him, he’d answer. The very thought of once again tending to a lost soul sent a shiver of excitement along his spine. But he was not keen on Isaac as his chaperon. Perhaps he could request a horse of his own?
It occurred to Silas that since the day he woke in this bed, he had not made one attempt to walk out the gates and vanish into the chaos of London. Was it possible an enchantment of some kind squashed such thoughts? Even now, with the idea dangling before him, there was no urge to rise and at the very least attempt to stroll out onto the main road. Rather it quite frightened him. More so than anything that had come before. Beyond the walls of Holly Village, Silas knew nothing of his place in the world. He might have been a vagabond, a pauper, or a prisoner. There may be those who wished to settle some dispute with him, in a gruesome way, or he might have laboured in a trade he despised. Certainly, the opposite might be true. Silas may be a man of means, or engaged in a most pleasing relationship. He might have been in love. A father.
Silas threw off the covers, the blast of early morning air prickling the hairs on his legs. The simple wooden clock upon the mantle declared it to be just beyond seven. He made his way to the window, pushing open the heavy fabric with its motif of falling autumn leaves. The print did not please him, to fussy and gregarious. He knew simple things such as this, what he enjoyed to eat, what colours he preferred, but nothing of true substance. The white blush of morning was upon the air. The lights in the turret of Jane’s home were on. As he watched, a shadow passed between light and window in one of the upstairs rooms, a man’s figure he was certain. It seemed she entertained company yet again. He eyed the gate once more, one corner just visible from where he stood. He imagined striding out through the wrought iron, making his way up the hill towards Lady Satine’s grand home. Demanding an audience.
The twitter of birds reached him from the garden, the creatures slowly awakening.
‘Good god man,’ he admonished his weak reflection. ‘You’d no sooner do that than choose to dine with Mr Astaroth.’
There could be no denying the fact that the mere mention of the Lady made him quite uneasy. They’d never met of course, but he sensed in the way she was spoken of that it would be an encounter to remember. The thought of standing before her made his belly churn.
All at once his room brightened with light, as though someone had entered with a candle held aloft. He turned to find the room quite empty but the culprit quite clear. There upon the bedside table the bandalore gleamed as though the sun’s rays lay upon it. Silas made his way to the bedside table, a short journey of just a few steps, but by the time he arrived the string had unwound from its place around the disc’s edge, rising into the air like a viper. The bandalore too had lost its glow, his attention now gained. The string snaked its way towards him, a sliver of white that twisted and turned. Silas remained where he was, unafraid. He held
out his hand. This time the string did not wind around his middle finger as it had done at the Baron’s, it simply furled in upon itself at the centre of his palm. Silas noted that his fingers did not tingle as they had at the Baron’s either. The entire situation felt vastly different. More personal. The furled string tugged the wooden disc with it, until the bandalore rested in Silas’s hand. At once the wood vibrated against his skin, and several exquisite notes rose against the air. Faint, so as to be almost indiscernible, but Silas heard the lyrical message loud and very clear nonetheless.
Take care, he was told. Take care.
There was a lack of urgency to the melody, whatever he was warned of was not an imminent danger, just a call to pay attention. Be cautious. Silas decided there was a definitive need for trousers, and hoped the bandalore would not take offence to being set down so that he might dress. He lay the bandalore on his pillow, and its glow subsided, its song fell silent. Silas hurried himself into his trousers, the same pair from last night that smelled of woodsmoke and curry. He lifted the bandalore as he might a baby bird, and held it with a gentle firmness. He was set to move to the door when a distant sound caught his attention. A shout, though of humour or temper he could not say. From where he stood he could see well enough out the window but the noise appeared to be coming from the far side of his house, beyond his scope of vision.
‘Do you wish me to investigate?’ Silas peered at the bandalore. He shook himself. ‘What are you doing you fool?’ The trinket was hardly about to grow a face and answer him. Was it?
Silas set off, catching sight of himself in a mirror by his door. His hair was quiet dishevelled after being stuffed beneath a pillow most of the night, there was every chance his appearance alone would frighten off whoever was causing the disturbance. He hurried down the stairs, and strode across the foyer, not entirely certain what he intended to do once he set foot outside the door, or if that was even what the bandalore required of him. Silas threw open the front door lest he reconsider. A scream erupted from the figure bent at his door mat.
