The Obsidian Mirror

by Catherine Fisher

  Or never, Wharton thought, catching the panic under the forced control. He drew himself upright. “Then I’m taking charge. Listen to me now. We need to re-group. Split up and work together.”

  In the slant of the flashlight beam he caught Rebecca’s giggle.

  “Well, you know what I mean. We have two emergencies here. This intruder. He seems to have disabled the lights. How?”

  “The mains supply comes down under the drive. There’s a control box in the stable block.” Piers shook his head. “I’ll need to get over there and work on it. But after I’m gone, you must make sure every window and door is firmly locked.” He glanced at Sarah.

  Wharton said, “Is this intruder anything to do with you?”

  She wanted to tell him. But then: “We know who it is.” Piers came over, wiping his hands on his coat. “He’s been spying on the place for a while. We call him the scarred man. Venn thinks…well, you’ve read the journal, Sarah. You’ve read about Maskelyne…”

  Rebecca, turned, restless. “Look, it doesn’t matter who he is, he could be forcing his way in right now. You should have seen that huge white wolf. It was terrifying. Let’s lock this place down!”

  Wharton nodded. “Okay. You’re with me. Sarah, stay with Piers. No one is to be on their own.”

  He hurried out, and Rebecca, after another glance at the mirror, ran after him.

  Sarah reached out toward the obsidian surface, and touched its solidity with her hands. “So where did they go, Piers?” she said quietly.

  He shrugged. “Somewhere near where the mirror is. David told us that he did not actually emerge from it, but it was within a mile or so from his arrival point. They have to find it.”

  But his voice was uncertain.

  As she turned, a flicker of eyes caught hers, a green glimmer in the mirror.

  She gasped. “Who’s that?”

  Piers grabbed a crowbar. “Where?”

  At first she thought it was one of the cats. Then she reached into the shadows and drew him out. He slid into the candlelight as if he had materialized out of air, a green-eyed boy in a ragged frockcoat, watching her with the wary stare of a trapped deer.

  The boy from the Wood.

  Gideon said slyly, “Don’t you know me, Piers?”

  Sarah saw Piers’s eyes widen in disbelief and then raw fear. “You! How did you get into the house?” He whirled, flashing the flashlight into all the dim corners. “Are they here? Is Summer here?”

  Gideon smiled. “Stay calm, little man. It’s just me.”

  His eyes moved to Sarah’s. “After an eternity in the greenwood, I finally got inside.”

  “Wait!” Jake came forward and grabbed the peeler’s arm. “There’s no need for this. The kid’s…the child is perfectly harmless.”

  His heart was thumping. Terror froze him. Without the bracelet, he was trapped here forever. He would have to live out his life in this stinking century and never see his father again.

  The girl watched him through her thatch of dark hair. Her eyes glinted with sly triumph.

  “Er, allow me to…” Jake’s hand scrabbled in his empty pockets. A single pound coin remained; he pulled it out and held it up, so that it glittered in the gaslight. “Allow me to recompense you for your troubles, my man. And leave the child out of this.”

  He sounded like a bad actor in a worse period drama, but that was all he knew of the past, all anyone could ever know, the thousand clichés of film and TV. All the history lessons in the world couldn’t help him now.

  The coin gleamed.

  The peeler said, “Well…mebbes I could.” His eyes on the coin.

  Jake threw it.

  It flashed through the dark. The man let the girl go and grabbed for it; instantly she ran, past Jake, so that he had to yell and twist after her, over the slippery cobbles of the yard, under the arch into a street ripe with the refuse of the dark houses that overhung it.

  She was fast and fleet as a rat, and he was still aching from the journey, but he caught her at the corner and flung her around.

  “Wait, you little brat.” Breathless, he held her off as she kicked and tried to bite. Then he held her in a firm arm-lock. She screamed.

  “Will you be quiet!” Jake looked around nervously. The fog masked the houses’ deep doorways. “Quiet! You said you saw them. The men that robbed me. I paid for your freedom. You owe me!”

  She stopped struggling and stared at him. Then she said, “Leave off.”

  He let her go.

  She looked up at him through her hair, poised to run. “You don’t ’arf talk rum.”

  “So do you. What’s your name?”

  “Moll.”

  He grinned. “I’m Jake. Moll, I need to find these men and I need to find them now.”

  Behind them in the fog, a whistle blew. The girl gave a quick glance and said, “Not here, mister. Too many rozzers. We’ll go to Skimble’s.”

  Before he could argue, she was gone, running into the fog, and he had to follow, clutching at the pain in his side.

  Down dim streets lined with runnels of flowing sewage, through labyrinths of dark alleys the girl led him, and he followed, deeper into the warren that was London’s squalid heart, totally lost among the courtyards and warehouses, the occasional flaring naphtha light of a late shop or a tavern where shrieks and shouts echoed. Cabs clattered by him, dark figures in cloaks and tall hats, women with painted faces called at him from doorways. Every wall was a patchwork of peeling advertisements.

  Moll slowed to a walk, darted down a passageway between two derelict buildings and clattered down some steps behind a rusty railing.

  “Wait,” Jake said, uneasy. “Why here?”

  “Because this is it, mister.” She pushed at a warped dark door until it opened.

  Jake stopped.

  She caught his arm, impatient. “Don’t be frit. It’s just Skimble’s.”

  She pushed through into a corridor and he followed, wary. The corridor was dark, running with damp. Once it had been ornate though, because above him were odd swirls of gilt paint, a ragged swathe of scarlet curtain, tied with a fat tassel of silk.

  “What is this place?”

  She shrugged. “A doss. A night pad.”

  He had no idea what she meant. And then, as they came to the end of the corridor, she ducked under a broken barricade of what looked like smashed-up chairs and led him into a sudden emptiness of tilted palaces and crumbling, painted paper mountains.

  They stood on a wide stage and before them ancient seats soared in tiered glory into the ceiling.

  “Skimble’s,” she said.

  17

  I dream of the scarred man. He comes and stands at the foot of my bed, and he is half angel, half demon. He says, “Don’t try to use the mirror. The mirror will possess you. The mirror will devour your soul.”

  He is too late. I have already discovered that.

  My house is a fortress, locked and bolted and barred. But ghosts and phantoms flicker here, in polished surfaces, in glass and crystal.

  And someone is watching every move I make.

  Journal of John Harcourt Symmes

  “WHO IS HE?” Sarah snapped.

  “Like I said.” Piers lowered the crowbar reluctantly. “He’s is a changeling. He’s with the Shee. Venn knows him.”

  Gideon laughed. He flicked his coattails and sat, as if relishing the comfort.

  She was astonished at him. He was thin, almost insubstantial, as if his very being had worn away through centuries. And yet under the fever-bright eyes and the crazy costume, there was a lost boy, someone so far from everyone else, there was no way back, and she understood that only too well.

  Not only that, his presence here was a sudden fierce hope for her. The Shee, if they existed, were reputed to be creatures that lived outside time. To them, all times were the same.

  She thought quickly. “Jake brought you here?”

  Gideon shrugged. “Foolishly, I thought he wanted to help me. But
he only wanted me to operate the machine. That was all he cared about.”

  “And what do you care about?” Sarah quietly watched as Piers turned back to the black mirror.

  The boy smiled, bitterly. “Going home. Though that is not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because nothing is left. They took me centuries since. Now I can’t leave the estate, so Summer says.”

  “Summer?”

  “Their queen. She’s told me many times. If I even set the toe of my foot on the unenchanted earth, I will dissolve into the dust I should have been five hundred years ago. She taunts me with it. I have no idea if it’s true, or if so much time has truly passed. Living with them—there’s no day and night, no seasons. No ageing.”

  “But…the Wood…it’s real.”

  “The edges are.” He shrugged. “As you go in deeper, it changes. You come to a strange place, where it’s always warm, the leaves are always green. Another world, not like this.”

  She looked at him. “An ageless land of summer. It sounds perfect.”

  Gideon allowed himself a small, hard smile. “You think so? These creatures, they’re not like us. Like you. They are beautiful and they think only of themselves, their music, their cold laughter. No ambition, no future, no past. They exist, like the wind. They’re like butterflies mostly, but even butterflies die. The Shee don’t die. They don’t fear death. They have no fear at all.”

  She shivered. For a moment she had the briefest glimpse of how his life must be, the precarious never-ending balance between fear and boredom. And then understanding came, and she stared at him.

  “That’s why you’re here! You think the Chronoptika can get you home!”

  Piers turned. “What?”

  The boy’s green eyes flickered a warning. For a moment she paused. Then smooth as a snake she said, “I was saying the Chronoptika is our only way of getting Jake and Venn home. We have to do everything we can…”

  “And you think I’m not?” Piers was weary and irritable. “I don’t intend to be a slave forever! Come on, let me out into the stables and lock the door after me. And you, Gideon, go back to Summer before she finds you missing. No one here can help you, and the last thing I want is her causing mayhem. I can’t deal with her. Not without Venn.”

  He stood before the mirror, and they saw his warped, curved image stare curiously into its darkness. “Who may be dead for all we know.”

  Wharton slammed and locked the final window. The casements were ancient, the fastenings frail with rust. It would be so easy to break in. Though perhaps the siege of the snow was more to be feared than some prowling stranger and his hungry wolf.

  He turned to Rebecca. “Right. That’s the lot. Go and check the cloister, though God knows what passageways and doors there are under this place.”

  “There’s an old story about a tunnel from the Abbey down into the river gorge.” She turned, eyes bright. “Maybe we should explore! It’s a way they might use to get in.” Her eyes were wide with excitement. She’s acting, Wharton thought.

  “What about your family? Won’t they be worried about you?”

  For a moment she just stared. Then her eyes flickered and she said, “Oh no…. that’s okay. They won’t worry.”

  “Phone them.”

  “No signal.”

  He nodded at the landline. “Use that.”

  She seemed reluctant. But when she picked it up she put her ear to it only for a moment and then held it out to him, and even before he took it he knew what he would hear.

  Silence.

  He turned, worried. “Go on. Check the cloister. Quick.”

  When she’d gone, he crossed to the study and rummaged in the mess on the shelves till he found an object he’d glimpsed yesterday, a battered ancient transistor radio. There still seemed to be some life in the battery; he tuned it carefully, noticing with a shock how his breath clouded. With the power off, the house was rapidly getting colder. And he desperately needed to find out what was going on in the outside world.

  Suddenly a local voice blurred out of static.

  …whole of the West country. Blizzard conditions have forced the closure of the M3, and all major roads across Dartmoor are severely affected. Motorists have been forced to abandon their cars and…

  The voice faded.

  “Blast.” Wharton rubbed his numb fingers and tried again.

  …emergency services. Police have advised…in outlying areas…not to leave home unless their journey is absolutely necessary…

  “Great.” It was clear they were trapped here. The drive would already be knee-deep.

  …Other news. A young woman…

  His hand went to the off switch and stayed there, paralyzed.

  …missing for two weeks from the Linley Psychiatric Institute in Wintercombe, Devon, has been found. Sarah Stewart walked into a police station in Truro yesterday, and…memory loss…she has…iving…uncle in Penzance…

  He swore, grabbed the radio. Shook it, stared at it.

  In a final dying whisper it said,…Today in Parliament the prime minister…

  Silence.

  Wharton sat back and breathed out a cloud of astonished breath. Then, to two of the black cats that sprawled on the desk, he said, “What the hell is going on here?”

  The cats blinked back at him.

  As soon as she was alone, Rebecca slipped through the cloister to the small outer gate and dragged it open. The snow was already falling heavily, every crack and crevice dusted with it; it blew horizontally into her face and the cold stung her eyes to tears. She wore a woolen hat pulled down over her ears, but still the blizzard sounded like the hissing of endless static.

  “Where are you?”

  She dared not shout. Wharton was too close. Beyond the gate was nothing but snow, all the overgrown lawns lost in it, the very trees invisible.

  And then he was there, a darkness darting out of that blinding white world, and he helped her drag the door shut and click the icy padlock, Rebecca dragging the bar across.

  Maskelyne leaned against the wall, coughing.

  He looked half frozen, hunched up with shivering, his lips pale blue with cold.

  She said, “Sorry. I couldn’t…”

  “What’s happened?” He hugged himself, numb. “You were so long.”

  “It’s all gone wrong! You wouldn’t believe! Venn and Jake have…journeyed. Isn’t that what you say?”

  His scarred stare was so stricken, she had to look away.

  “Where? When?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  “No I mean when? What interval of time?”

  “No one knows. Piers is scared stiff.”

  So was he. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, the thin fingers clutching the lank dark hair. “Rebecca this is unbearable. To be so close, and to…”

  “You can still take it. The mirror. I’ll help you.”

  “The mirror is no use without the bracelet.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe…”

  “Rebecca?” Wharton’s yell made them both jump.

  Maskelyne turned like a cat. He slipped out into the cloister and ducked behind the low wall just as Wharton ran through the inner door.

  “All secure?”

  “Yes. Fine,” she said, breathless.

  “Good. We need to get back. I want to talk to Sarah.” He turned, abruptly and so tense with agitation, she said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Apart from everything, you mean?” He shrugged, and she realized suddenly that even this big, bluff man was scared. Scared and angry. “I want answers, Rebecca. Because this whole bloody charade is getting dangerous. And I’m worried sick about Jake.”

  He stormed into the house and she followed, glancing back at Maskelyne, who rose out of the cloister and watched her like a ghost.

  I am desperate to make my first public demonstration of the machine, but I must be so careful! I must do nothing until I am sure of its powers, or I will look such a fo
ol. There are plenty of mule-headed bigots in the Royal Society who would scoff at my claims, so I must proceed with utmost care, and not ruin my triumph by impatience.

  Five times now I have managed to create the vortex in the mirror. I have had to supply a vast amount of voltaic energy, and create a magnetic field so powerful, its effects can be felt streets away.

  I have also destroyed two rooms in my house as the result of explosions and a recent fire. But wonderful things have happened.

  First, there is a terrible compulsion to enter the mirror. Rather like Odysseus, I have resorted to tying myself down in my chair before beginning the experiment and fastening the chair itself with chains to a pillar in the basement. Even so the drag yesterday snapped the ropes and I was hurled forward with such force, I bloodied my head, and only my hand leaving the controls saved me.

  Who knows in what time or place I would have found myself?

  I see such things in the obsidian glass!

  I have seen a green meadow, backed by wooded hills and a small blue lake. Perhaps Cumbria, perhaps Wales. I have seen a room so dark, it might be underground, and heard singing there, in some tongue I could not identify, and then a figure garbed in some cloak, for an instant, before the void. I have tossed in meticulously weighed samples of minerals, wood, vegetative matter.

  All have vanished

  None have returned.

  I have analyzed the variations in gravity, the harmonics of the mirror’s curve, the strange alterations in its weight and mass.

  And today, I shall make my first experiment with a living creature.

  The dog is one I picked up from the streets; the alleys of London swarm with such curs. It is of some mongrel variety, terrier-like, with a black ear and a great black blob on its flank.

  A trusting creature, it allowed me to scoop it up and bring it back in the carriage; it ate hungrily of a whole plate of beef and then composed itself for sleep. Now it lies snoring and snuffling.

  But someone has just knocked on the door.