by KW Jeter
Perhaps the strains of my recent existence had at last overpowered my reason; perhaps, in place of mere confusion and bewilderment, my mind had begun to produce its own visions and phantasms. My skull filled with this airy notion; I seemed to drift skyward as I mused, leaving the fire and yapping crowd below. The thought of the arch-respectable Mrs Trabble, the doyenne of all London's moral crusaders, rounding up women for the servicing of some unspeakable vice, struck me as most amusing.
"Get him!" A screeching cry plummeted me to earth. I blinked, and found myself looking into the rage-contorted face of Mollie Maud – or Mrs Trabble; one and the same as she pointed a trembling finger at me.
The bullies, befuddled with drink, gaped stupidly at me. Before the nearest could lumber his great bulk up from where he sat, I plunged through a gap in the circle. A hand nipped at my leg, too late to catch me, but sending me tumbling down the slope and splashing into the marshy darkness below.
"What's the matter?" I heard one of the bullies say, his sodden puzzlement complete. "Who is he, then?"
The woman's howl pierced the night. "Dolts! Just get him! He knows who I am!"
Crouching in the muddy stream, I parted a screen of reeds and spied her frenziedly belabouring the backs of her henchmen with her meaty fists. A few of them fumbled out their pistols from their waistbands and began clumsily working their way down the slope towards my hiding spot.
My masquerade with these ruffians was effectively at an end; there was nothing for it now but simple flight. The surrounding countryside was too boggy to make any progress through; panicky wallowing in and out of the maze of streams and fens would bring the brothel bullies on top of me. If I could make it to one of the roads crossing the landscape, I would have at least a small chance of putting some distance between myself and my pursuers. As quietly as possible, with the oozy muck up to my chest, I waded towards a dark ridge blotting the bottom of the night sky. Behind me, I could hear the splashing and angry shouts of the bullies as they blundered into one another in their search. I made it to the gravelly bank and crawled up from the tangled weeds at its base. When I reached the edge of the rutted highway, I cautiously lifted my head to see if any of Mollie Maud's crew had anticipated my intention and circled around to intercept me here. Seeing no one, I climbed up on to the road.
No sooner had I done so, than I heard the splatter of horses' hooves in the mud, distant but rapidly approaching. Silhouetted against the night were the cloaked riders of the Godly Army, heading straight for me. At their head, a sword was waved aloft, and a triumphant cry sounded: I had been spotted.
For a moment, I was frozen as though I were a rabbit startled by hunting hounds; then I dived from the edge of the road, sliding through gravel and mud to the marshy stream below. There was no time for quiet now, as the Godly Army reined their mounts to a halt at the point I had just vacated. In desperation, I plunged through the water, tearing aside roots and tangled weeds impeding my way. Behind me, I heard this fresh band of pursuers abandoning their horses – useless in the fens – and scrambling after me.
In my unthinking haste, I nearly slogged into the arms of Mollie Maud's gang. I spotted their torches in time the bullies, waist-deep in the marsh, were poking through the vegetation with the muzzles of their pistols – and, stifling a cry of alarm and despair, clawed my way through the reeds in another direction. Shouting arose behind me as the two groups collided; I was given a little respite as muddled fighting broke out amongst them. Pistol shots and shouted curses rang over the landscape; only when they realised that their common quarry was getting away, did they disengage battle and resume their increasingly chaotic, splashing and wallowing searches, exchanging blows whenever their paths crossed.
The confusion among my pursuers had enabled me to put some distance behind me, though I could easily glance over my shoulder and see their various torches weaving through the choked streams. I was nearing exhaustion, praying silently that I could make it to another of the roads before either the bullies or the Godly Army fell upon me. That was the only hope I could devise for myself; my dazed brain could conjure no other strategy than that.
Suddenly I heard more voices raise in angry tones, this time from in front of me. I crouched down behind a clump of reeds and peered ahead. A moan of anguish escaped my lips when I saw that it was the villagers of Dampford, brandishing pitchforks and other brutal implements as they waded through the marsh. Their piscine faces were made even more repellent by the ferocity displayed there; they had apparently regained their courage and had come seething after the sacrifice that had been snatched from them just a short time ago.
The three factions – Mollie Maud's bullies, the Godly Army, and now the villagers – were on all sides of me save one. I plunged in that direction, heedless that it led nowhere except farther into the weedy streams and stagnant pools of the marshland. There was no longer a conscious thought in my head, only blind panic impelling me into flight.
Something in the water tangled about my feet, and I went headlong into a muddy bank. Raising my head from the muck, I heard the overlapping shouts grow louder: some yards away, the villagers had collided with the others. Cries of Fish-face bastards! from the bullies mingled with the Godly Army's Heathens! Devilish spawn! overlaid with the villagers' indecipherable curses. More shots, the clash of sword against scythe, the splash when one body was thrown back from another, torches hissing as they were extinguished by the dark water – thus the renewed battle raged. No alliances were possible among such disparate elements; each man fought against the members of the other parties, and occasionally, in the confusion, his own.
I spat out the mud that had filled my mouth, and panted for breath. It would only be a matter of time before one of the factions prevailed against the others and, with as many of them as might be left standing, resumed their search for me. Or, seeing the futility of their combat, some sort of truce might yet be achieved, and all three parties would spread out for that purpose. Wet, cold, and miserable, I huddled behind the weeds, stifling the fear that would otherwise have sent me wallowing noisily in any direction.
Before I could assemble my scattered wits, a surge of muddy water slapped against my chest. A figure rose up before me, blotting out the night sky as I fell backwards. My only thought was that one of the combatants had separated from the others and silently tracked me down. His hand reached out and gripped me by the shoulder before I could make any attempt to escape.
I had been caught. I squeezed my eyes shut, awaiting the inevitable pistol shot, sword, or pitchfork into my vitals. Instead, I heard a voice, familiar from far back in my memory: "Dower – heed me." The hand shook me. "Little time is there."
An obscuring cloud slid from the moon as my eyes shot open. By the thin light, I saw the dark face ornamented with its lines of scars. The Brown Leather Man gazed down at me.
11
A Great Career is Launched
"But – you're dead…"
The Brown Leather Man pulled me close to the shelter of the stream's bank, and laid a finger on my mouth, silencing any further cry of astonishment. I could see that, above the water to our waists, the upper half of his body was stripped bare. Clouds parted before the moon, the thin light glinting from his powerful chest and arms as the rivulets coursed over lines of scars such – as those that decorated his face. "Be quiet, Dower," he whispered close to my ear. "Great danger you are in."
Cowering beneath an outcropping of tangled roots, I could hear the shouts and mingled violence of the searchers, surging first in one direction, then another, like a storm-driven sea. "Yes–" My own voice was close to breaking into a sob. "The villagers… and that Mollie Maud woman–"
The dark head nodded impatiently. "She is a person of evil, the mask of good using to better hide."
"I don't understand…"
The Brown Leather Man shook me roughly, breaking off the trembling small voice of my confusion. "Now that is not important." The slitted eyes bored into mine. "Many explanatio
ns will be later. First you must escape her, and the other."
"Yes… yes, of course!" I seized his arm, the veil of my exhaustion having been pierced. "But how–"
He signalled again for quiet. "Arrangements I have made. I have been following you – hidden – until you I could help. But now all will be safe. The crossroads there." He drew me away from the bank and pointed, his dark arm shining in the darkness. "Do you see?"
A pair of the region's gnarled trees stood sentinel over a raised bank a few hundred yards away. After a moment I could discern the flat surfaces of the two roads that met by them. "Yes," I whispered.
"Go there. This water–" He jabbed a finger at the murky ooze around us. "It goes there. Curves, yes? But if in it you stay, the others will see you not. At the crossroads, wait. Down below until a carriage you hear coming. Then go up. Away it will take you, to safety." His gaze searched my face. "Is all clear?"
"I understand. But – you'll be there? With the carriage?" I desperately hoped so; his was the first voice in a long while that, despite its odd accents, seemed untinged with either hostility or dementia.
"No." He drew away from me, into the deeper part of the stream, lowering himself into it so that the water lapped up to his chest. "Later – again you will see me." Only his head was visible; then one hand broke the surface and pointed. "The crossroads – go." He disappeared entire, leaving only a circular ripple in the moonlight.
I was alone again, as if the apparent resurrection of the Brown Leather Man had been but a phantasm born of a despairing mind driven beyond the limits of its endurance. In the distance, I could hear my pursuers – Mollie Maud's bullies, the villagers, and the Godly Army all muddled into one baying pack – as they combed the sodden landscape; they were undoubtedly real enough. I eased my way along the side of the stream, striking out for the appointed rendez-vous.
Though my breath was a rock in my throat the entire time, my progress was uneventful, save for when a torch was thrust directly above my head. I cowered into the edge, crouching below a tangle of reeds while a silhouetted figure – of which party I could not tell – viewed the stream's surface. "He's not here!" was shouted back to the others. "He must've gone round the other way." I waited until the splashing of footsteps receded some distance before cautiously resuming my course.
When I was but a few yards away from the crossroads, the gnarled trees outlined against the night sky, my anxiety had mounted to such a pitch that I pushed forward through the water, heedless of the noise I made. I mastered myself sufficiently to hesitate at the base of the sloping bank going up to the roadway; I was overjoyed to hear the pounding of the horses' hooves. Clawing at the muddy turf, I scrambled up to the top..
My elation plummeted as I stood in the centre of the crossroads, water sluicing from my limbs, and surveyed all four directions. No vehicle was approaching. Just as I realised that I had been betrayed by the pounding of my own heart, hammering in the cage of my chest, I also spotted a line of torches freeze in position some distance away. A shout rang out over the fens: "There he is!"
Standing thus exposed on the high ground, I had been spotted by my pursuers. I whirled about again, and saw the silhouetted figures in the dark quadrants between the crossroads' arms, surrounding me; the alerting cry was echoed by the others; the torches were raised higher as their bearers forded across stream and bog in their eagerness to lay hands on me.
I could not escape them by plunging back down the bank and into the fens; they would soon fold in on me from either side, trapping me between them. The quicker footing of the road was beneath me, however; I shook myself free of the paralysis that had gripped me, and started to run, my boots splashing in the ruts.
I had gone but a few yards, however, when a sight ahead pulled me up short. Some of the more clever among the factions had not come straight across the marshy turf towards me, but had cut across to the nearest of the roads. I saw them now scrambling up the banks; I looked behind and saw that the same tactic had occurred to others. I was completely encircled, every avenue barred by my pursuers.
In the distance ahead, they reached the road's surface, and raised themselves from their scrambling crouch. I could see them catching their breath and gloating at my predicament; in a moment they would sprint towards me, to claim my blood as their honour.
Then, as I watched, they were scattered to either side as though they were tenpins. A brace of horses surged through at a dead gallop, trampling one of my pursuers beneath their hooves. The driver atop the carriage behind whipped them to even greater speed.
Shouting broke out from behind me; I looked over my shoulder and saw a combined party of villagers and bullies no more than twenty yards away, and racing towards me. I turned and ran, waving my arms at the carriage as a pistol shot rang over my head.
The driver spotted me; he laid on the whip again; the carriage was almost on top of me when he reined the team in to a violent, skidding stop, nearly toppling the vehicle over. I took a hurried glance behind and saw the maddened face of the fastest runner, his outstretched hands straining for me. Someone threw open the carriage's door; the unseen person grasped my elbow and helped me scramble up inside. I collapsed on the floor as the horses were whipped into motion again; the pursuer cried out as his grip was torn loose from the door and he fell beneath the rear wheel.
I raised my head at the sound of more shouting and pistol shots; through the small window I could see the flare of torches as the carriage careered through the party that had been closest at my heels. Their furious voices faded behind as the carriage picked up speed, jolting over the rutted highway.
"He looks all right," a woman's voice said coolly. I saw that my hands, braced against the carriage's floor, were next to her white kid boots. I looked up and, by the soft glow of a travel lantern swinging on a hook, recognised Mrs Wroth smiling at me.
"Seems to have come through rather well," a man's voice agreed.
I looked around to the opposite seat. For a moment I thought I was gazing into a mirror; I saw my own face gazing back at me. Then the image's lips moved, forming words as my own mouth went slack in amazement.
"I'm glad you could be with us." The elegantly dressed figure folded his gloved hands together in his lap. He smiled, exhibiting a mocking self-assurance in the features I had thought were my own. "You're… very important to me."
His laughter, joined by Mrs Wroth's, rang inside the carriage as I gazed dumbfounded upon this apparition.
"You look a sight, Dower." My double's amusement was evident. "You're sopping wet. Fortunately, we thought to bring along a few of my things – I'm sure you'll find them a suitable fit." He reached up and drew open the small hatch to communicate with the driver; the carriage slowed and came to a stop in accordance with his instructions.
We had left the scene of my flight across the fens – and the combined forces of Mollie Maud's, the villagers, and the Godly Army that had occasioned it – sufficiently far behind us. The carriage driver, whom I recognised as the same employee of Lord Bendray that had brought me out from London, lifted down a small trunk from atop the vehicle. By the light of the travel lantern, a selection of clothing – fitting me as my double had promised, but smelling remarkably musty, as though stored for a considerable length of time – was exchanged for mine. I dressed by moonlight, standing on the edge of the open deserted road; the comfort of dry garments outweighed any possible bemusement at the situation. From my fouled shirt, a glittering object fell to the road. It was the Saint Monkfish sovereign – so many travails had it brought me! For a moment, I was poised to throw it into the ditch; then I altered my decision and placed it in the pocket of the coat I wore. I tossed the mud-befouled garments into the ditch alongside, and climbed back into the carriage.
Mrs Wroth had joined my double on one of the seats; I sat facing them as the carriage rocked into motion again. Her arm rested along the top of the leather, one hand toying languidly with the fringe of hair at the enigmatic figure's collar. She gazed
at him, then smiled at me as though in possession of some great and satisfying secret.
"I imagine you feel better now." My double rolled his head back against the woman's caress. "I'm sorry you had an anxious moment – we tried to get there as soon as we could."
I leaned across the space between us, searching the face that I had only seen before in a looking glass. "Who are you?" I said after a moment's wondering silence.
Mrs Wroth's laughter chimed again.
"Didn't Scape tell you?" he said softly. "About me?"
The realisation began to grow in my mind. "You're the…"
"That's right. You should have known me, anyway; after all, we have the same father. So to speak."
I fell back against the leather seat. "The Paganinicon," I whispered.
He made a mock bow, bending forward at the waist and flourishing his hand. "Indeed. At last we have this… mutual pleasure, I hope?"
"But – you're not clockwork… are you?"
His hands deftly undid the centre buttons of his shirt, and drew it apart. By the wavering glow of the travel lantern, I saw, not flesh, but a skin of moulded shiny metal. He reached beneath where his bottom ribs would have curved, and lifted upward.
