Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

   

  Chapter Twelve

  Gareth Sheldrake woke suddenly and lay in the darkness listening to the rapid pounding of his own heart. He tried to control his breathing, willing himself to inhale slowly, calmly. The nightmare was a series of fading images in his mind. Sitting up, he shivered and pulled the blankets tightly around his body. He sniffed, thinking a whiff charnel house had leaked from his dream and lingered in the room. He looked around, checking the shapes and shadows around his room, ensuring they were all familiar. In the moonlight, it was easy to see that nothing was out of place. Moonlight? He glanced towards the window – hadn’t the curtains been closed tight? One of the heavy velvet drapes had been drawn back, and diamond-leaded pane of the window was clearly visible. Perhaps Henrik had opened the curtain while he slept. Sheldrake turned towards the door, thinking to shout for his manservant, but decided against it. He could ask in the morning.

  A tapping sound drew his attention back to the window. A branch against the glass? There was no tree out there, not even ivy. He leaned forward, looking for the source of the sound. And then a shape appeared outside the window, and the sight of it caused his throat to constrict. He knew immediately it was a face, even though it could not be a human face. There were staring eyes, and a dark gaping mouth, but the skin was dark and black. Like oil. Or like blood seen under moonlight. Bloody fingers scraped at the glass again, and a terrible moaning sound came from the lips of the apparition.

  “Stay away from me!” Sheldrake cried. And then his vision swam and darkness claimed him.

   There was a light tap at his door, and it was pushed inwards. Sheldrake opened one eye, fearing what he might see.

  “Sir?” His servant, Henrik, white hair sticking out at all angles, spindly legs showing below the hem of his nightshirt. He held a lighted candle in a dull pewter holder, and the flame gave his face a yellow glow. “I heard you cry out.”

  “A dream,” Sheldrake said.

  “More ghosts, sir?” Henrik shuffled towards the bed.

  “Just dreams,” Sheldrake insisted.

  Henrik reach out with a dry palm to touch his forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

  Sheldrake slapped the hand away. “Don’t be such an old woman. I’m not sick.”

  “That’s what my cousin Herbert kept saying.”

  “He did, did he?” Sheldrake rolled his eyes.

  “Yes, he did. And do you know what happened to him?”

  Sheldrake sighed. “No, what happened to him?”

  “He died. His wife wanted to get him a headstone with ‘I’m not sick’ carved on it.”

  “Did she really?”

  “No, she didn’t. Have you seen what masons charge for grave carvings?”

  “I’m sure their fees are monumental,” Sheldrake said.

  “You don’t drink and you don’t smoke,” Henrik said, “so if it isn’t a fever, it might be your digestion. Could be something you ate.”

  “Something I ate?”

  “Mushrooms. They give you very odd dreams – if you find the right ones. Or so I’m told.”

  “Mushrooms?”

  “And some toads.”

  “I’ve never eaten a toad,” Sheldrake said.

  “You don’t eat them, you lick the bumps on them.”

  “People do that?” Sheldrake didn’t believe a word of it.

  “They must do. My old mum used to say: Before your man looks like a prince, you have to lick a lot of toads.”

  “If I’d licked a toad this evening, I’m sure I would remember.”

  “That’s true,” Henrik said. “Unless you are still dreaming. I might be a toad-induced hallucination.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “If you were a dog, I’d put you out of your misery, you know that, don’t you?” Sheldrake said.

  “You’d never find a dog as faithful as me, and you know that. I’ve devoted myself to your care since the day your mother – well, for more days than I can remember.”

  Sheldrake glared at him.

  “I’ll stop talking now, shall I?” the old man said.

  “That would be marvellous.”

  The old man turned back towards the door, but stopped. “Could I ask just one more question?”

  “Does it involve dead family members or tongue-contact with animals?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Then you may ask.”

  “Why have you opened the curtains?” Henrik asked.

  “I have not opened them.”

  “Well, they were closed when I tucked you in.”

  “You do not tuck me in, I’m a grown man!” Sheldrake snapped, being careful to avoid looking towards the window, in case there was a face outside.

  “Of course you are.” The old man shuffled towards the door. “Would you like me to fetch you some warm milk?”

  “Yes, please.”

   

   

  Chapter Thirteen

  Anton Leyander was in his favourite spot in the marketplace, wearing his clown face and trying to attract an audience. He was juggling three empty wine bottles, sending them spinning high in the air and catching them deftly. A few people had stopped to watch.

  “What price am I offered for a story?” Anton called out. “A farthing will buy you an anecdote. A shiny penny will get you the best parts of a saga.” A few pennies and ha’pennies were thrown at his feet by way of encouragement.

  “And what for a silver shilling?”

  “A shilling will get you into the theatre to see a real drama,” Anton said. He was concentrating on his juggling, making the bottles seem doubled in number, and sending them fountaining through the air. He slowed them to a gentle circle, looking through it at the woman who had thrown the silver.

  “Will you not perform for a shilling?” Meg asked him.

  “For a shilling, I will perform any act you desire... But first, a story!”

  Giggles from the crowd. One of the wine bottles vanished, and Anton juggled the remaining two. A second bottle vanished, seemingly thrown up into the air and disappearing before it could fall. The final bottle was spinning in front of Anton’s face, balanced on one index finger. And it had been transformed from green glass into white metal studded with coloured jewels. As the jewelled bottle slowed to a stop, sunlight flashing from the many facets of its jewelled surface, the crowd applauded.

  Anton caught the bottle in the palm of his hand and bowed with a flourish. His smile grew broader. “Who would care to guess what this flask contains?” he asked.

  The crowd shifted, some shrugged, others mumbling to their neighbours.

  “A bright penny to the one who guesses correctly,” Anton said.

  “Wine?” someone called.

  Anton shook his head.

  “Water?”

  No.

  “Spice?”

  No.

  “Exotic perfume?”

  No.

  “It contains nothing at all,” one man suggested, thinking to outsmart the clown.

  Again, Anton shook his head.

  “What does it contain?” someone shouted, when the guesses seemed finally exhausted.

  Anton smiled a wide clown smile. “It contains something magical, something you would not believe...”

  “What?” The crowd leaned forward expectantly.

  “The story of what this bottle contains, and how it came to be here, would take some time in the telling, and I really should be about my business...”

  “Tell us!” from amid the crowd.

  A silver coin was tossed into the dust to join the coppers. Anton looked up, and Megan Jarrett smiled at him.

  “Very well, I shall perform for my lady’s pleasure. But first... a story.” Anton held up the jewelled bottle for all to see. “The truth is that this is not a simple a bottle at all...”

  In another part of the marketplace, Walcott stood in the shadows watching the fruit-seller’s daughter, Iona, at work on
his stall. He wanted to go over and talk to her, but first he had to think of something to say. In the past few weeks, he had bought more fruit than he had ever bought in his life, and he had even eaten some of it. Now he wanted to engage her in a conversation into which he could casually work an invitation to join him for a walk on the beach, and perhaps a a light supper and some wine.

  “Just ask her if you can squeeze her fruits,” Walcott’s friend said in his ear.

  “Piss off!” Walcott said. His cheeks glowed bright red.

  His friend shrugged and wandered away. Walcott looked back towards the fruit stall, and saw Iona was looking straight at him and smiling. Damn, he thought, now she thinks I’m blushing because of her.

  “His two brothers had each made their wish and received what they coveted. And both had met a terrible end,” Anton continued.

  “‘What is your wish, my master?’ The djinn asked the third and youngest of the brothers. The Djinn smiled, showing pointed teeth, thinking he would be able to turn the boy’s wish into a horrible murder, as he had the others.

  “‘My wish,’ said the youngest brother, “is for you to show me what the inside of your bottle is like: I seek only to spend a minute or two in your home, but I would like you to show it to me personally.” The boy held out the stoppered bottle, placing it carefully on a nearby rock.

  Anton, seated on the wall around the fountain now, placed the ornate bottle on the wall beside him.

  “The Djinn smiled once more, already planning how he would twist this wish and bring about the boy’s death inside the bottle. It would take only a brief time to show the boy the inside of the djinn’s former prison, and then the boy’s life was his!

  “The Djinn waved his arms, his fingers drawing arcane symbols in the air, and both he and the boy faded from sight, to reappear inside the Djinn’s bottle. Two or three minutes later, there came a terrible scream from within the stoppered bottle.”

  The audience looked towards the bottle.

  “No!” Anton’s scream made some of them jump, they laughed nervously. “The boy faded back into view, and looked at the bottle. He smiled. Inside the bottle, the djinn wailed. He had been tricked back inside his bottle. The wish had released the boy at the end of the tour of the bottle’s interior, but the djinn’s own magic could not release him from his prison. He was trapped safely inside once more. The boy picked up the bottle, and dropped it into the sea.” Leander picked up the bottle and let it plop into the fountain. “It was carried away on the tide, never to be seen again.”

  A smattering of applause from the crowd. Anton bowed. The spell broken, people wandered away. Of Megan Jarrett, there was no sign. Anton picked up the coins and pocketed them. Then he leaned over the fountain wall and retrieved the jewelled bottle. He dipped a handkerchief into the water and used it to wipe the chalky powder from his face. From the corner of his eye, he saw Meg watching him from the shadow of a doorway. Pretending not to notice her, Anton pulled off his shirt and dipped his head in the water. He scrubbed his face clean, and then shook the water from his hair, wringing it out. Closing his eyes, he turned his face towards the sun and let it dry his skin. Then he pulled on his shirt and set off across the marketplace.

  Megan Jarrett saw Anton duck into a side-street, and hurried after him. When she turned into the street, Anton had vanished. She looked to left and right, but there was no sign of him.

  “It is a simple trick, once you have the knack of it.”

  Meg turned, startled. Anton was sitting on a wall, above and behind her. He jumped down, and they faced each other.

  “Good day to you, Captain Jarrett,” he said, smiling. “I would thank you for your generosity, both today and previously.”

  “Talent should be rewarded,” Meg said. She leaned forward and rubbed at his chin with her thumb, removing a last spot of white. “Was the story today of your own devising?” She took his arm and they walked back towards the marketplace.

  “I stole bits and pieces from here and there: a storyteller is like a magpie, always on the lookout for shiny images and ideas that will captivate an audience.”

  “I have a story I would share with you. It was something I dreamed last night,” Meg said.

  “I would advise caution,” Anton said, “dreams often reveal our innermost desires, if their meaning is read correctly.”

  “I think the meaning of this dream will be clear enough,” Meg said.

  “Then my ears are yours.”

  “I have had stranger gifts.”

  “Really?”

  Meg considered a moment. “No, perhaps I have not. Though I have received several unsavoury items during my years on the ocean.”

  “I want to say ‘Such as?’ but do not wish to distract you from the main plot: a storyteller who does not keep to the point risks losing his audience.”

  They continued through the market, arm in arm.

  “My dream,” Meg said. “I see a figure racing across the rooftops, leaping gracefully, and landing silently like a cat. His costume is dark against the night sky. He stands silhouetted in the moonlight for a moment, then climbs in through my window. He has the body of a dancer, and the face of a clown. White face. Eyes rimmed with kohl. Dark red lips.”

  Anton looked at her, wondering whether Edison had shared with her the fact that the clown from the marketplace was also a thief.

  “The clown opens his mouth to tell me something, but no words will come. In the firelight, I see he is crying. He holds up a dagger, and I see its blade is red with blood. He casts it aside, and its shatters like glass when it hits the floor.”

  “Your father is not the only one in the family with a flair for the theatrical,” Anton said.

  Meg turned and pressed her finger to his lips to silence him. “The clown undresses, and the firelight picks out the flat, solid muscles of his body. He walks naked across the room, and then his body is cool and hard against mine. His lips are velvet soft. His fingers barely brush the surface of my skin, and I shiver as it raises goose bumps. A warm hand caresses the inside of my thigh. ‘Do not treat me like glass,’ I whisper, close to his ear. He rolls over and then I am above him, I can smell the maleness of him under me. ‘I like the way you smell,’ I whisper. My teeth are nibbling at his ear lobe, then at his lower lip. My kiss firm, insistent. My fingertips explore the hard ridges of his stomach muscles, move down to stroke him erect. His body arches under me. I slide down on him, pulling him inside me. No time for thought, only sensation.

  “And then in the dream I awake. He is naked still, sitting in a chair beside the bed. Watching me sleep. I can smell our sex in the damp sheets. ‘I have to go,’ he whispers. ‘Is it dawn?’ I ask. He shakes his head. And then I see that he holds the dagger and it was whole again. He raises it and tastes the blood on the blade with the tip of his tongue.”

  Meg sighed. She was flushed, not from the embarrassment of having shared such an intimate experience, but from the excitement of having relived it.

  Anton blushed too.

  “What secret desires does that reveal, do you think?” Meg asked.

  Anton remembered the warning of the dark-haired man in the tavern, and wondered if he might have told the truth. “I don’t... that is, I...”

  Meg pressed her finger to his lips again. “If my story didn’t thrill you, I know something else that might,” she said. She walked away from him, and then looked back over her shoulder. “I saw my father this morning, and he has agreed that you may audition for one of the male leads. You must attend the Siren’s Head at two this afternoon.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you...” Anton said.

  “I’m sure we’ll think of something.” Meg smiled, then turned and hurried away.

  Anton watched her go, wondering whether it was wise for him to play along with her game. He did not spend long on that thought, because his mind soon challenged him with another: Why did the idea of playing a part in Doran Jarrett’s new play seem so attractive?

  *r />
  Edison spotted Meg the moment he stepped out of the door: she was a little way down the street and pretending a great interest in the breads displayed in the baker’s window. But while her head was turned in that direction, her eyes were on the door to the inn, the door she knew he must come out of. Seeing him, her eyes flicked back in the direction of the loaves. She disappeared into the shop. She would re-enter the street as he passed, remarking on the coincidence of their meeting, he was sure. Edison considered heading in the opposite direction, simply to annoy her, but decided against it. She had made her way almost to his door, so perhaps she was ready to forgive him. He hurried down the steps and along the street towards the baker’s. Meg did not miss her cue.

  “Why friend Edison, what a coincidence! Do have a cinnamon bun.”

  Was it his imagination, or did she emphasise the word friend? Edison took a warm bun and bit into it. “How goes it with you, captain?” he asked.

  “Never better,” she answered brightly. “The work on my ship is almost completed, fair weather is promised for when we sail; what more could I desire of the world?”

  “Something male and amply endowed, perhaps?” Edison suggested, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

  “Perhaps I have that too,” Meg said, still smiling.

  Edison frowned. “What day did you say you set sail?”

  “Are you not in the least bit curious about him?” Meg asked.

  “Who?” Edison asked, finishing his bun and licking his fingers

  “You will like him, Edric. He is witty and intelligent, as well as very handsome.”

  She was teasing him, looking for some sign of jealousy in his face. He also suspected that she had more to tell. He would pretend disinterest, just to infuriate her.

  “I hate him already. Another bun, if you please.”

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the last of the warm cinnamon bread.

  “The auditions today promise to be most interesting,” Meg said.

  “That is good to hear.”

  “My father is seeking a second male lead to play opposite you. And I have discovered someone I think is perfect for the role. I saw him performing in the market place.” Meg watched Edison from the corner of her eye.