The wood no longer struck Strange as a welcoming place. It appeared to him now as it had at first – sinister, unknowable, unEnglish. As for the lights, he could barely see them; they were the merest pricks of white in the darkness and suggested nothing except that the inhabitants of the house could not afford many candles.
“Magician!” cried the King.
“I am here, Your Majesty.”
Place a swarm of bees at my ears (he thought). Bees love truth and will destroy the deceiver’s lies.
A low murmuring noise filled his ears, blocking out the music of the flute-player. It was very like language and Strange thought that in a little while he would understand it. It grew, filling his head and his chest to the very tips of his fingers and toes. Even his hair seemed electrified and his skin buzzed and shook with the noise. For one horrible moment he thought that his mouth was full of bees and that there were bees buzzing and flying under his skin, in his guts and his ears.
The buzzing stopped. Strange heard the flute-player’s music again but it did not sound as sweet as before and it no longer seemed to be describing his life.
Place salt in my mouth (he thought) lest the deceiver attempt to delight me with the taste of honey or disgust me with the taste of ashes.
This part of the spell had no effect whatsoever.2
Nail my hand with an iron nail so that I shall not raise it to do the deceiver’s bidding.
“Aaaghh! Dear God!” screamed Strange. There was an excruciating pain in the palm of his left hand. When it ceased (as suddenly as it had begun) he no longer felt compelled to hurry towards the wood.
Place my heart in a secret place so that all my desires shall be my own and the deceiver shall find no hold there.
He pictured Arabella, as he had seen her a thousand times, prettily dressed and seated in a drawing-room among a crowd of people who were all laughing and talking. He gave her his heart. She took it and placed it quietly in the pocket of her gown. No one observed what she did.
Strange next applied the spell to the King and at the last step he gave the King’s heart to Arabella to keep in her pocket. It was interesting to observe the magic from the outside. There had been so many unusual occurrences in the King’s poor head that the moon’s sudden appearance there seemed to occasion him no surprize. But he did not care for the bees; he was brushing them away for some time afterwards.
When the spell was finished, the flute-player abruptly ceased playing.
“And now, Your Majesty,” said Strange, “I think it is time we returned to the Castle. You and I, Your Majesty, are a British King and a British magician. Though Great Britain may desert us, we have no right to desert Great Britain. She may have need of us yet.”
“True, true! I swore an oath at my coronation always to serve her! Oh, my poor country!” The King turned and waved in the direction he supposed the mysterious flute-player to be. “Goodbye! Goodbye, dear sir! God bless you for your kindness to George III!”
Revelations of Thirty-Six Other Worlds lay half-covered up by the snow. Strange picked it up and brushed off the snow. He looked back. The dark wood had gone. In its place was a most innocent clump of five leafless beech trees.
On the ride back to London Strange was deep in thought. He was aware that he ought to have been disturbed by his experience at Windsor, perhaps even frightened. But his curiosity and excitement far exceeded his uneasiness. Besides, whatever, or whoever, had done the magic, he had defeated them and imposed his will upon theirs. They had been strong, but he had been stronger. The whole adventure had confirmed something he had long suspected: that there was more magic in England than Mr Norrell admitted.
Consider the matter from whichever point of view he would, he continually came back to the silver-haired person whom only the King could see. He tried to recall what exactly the King had said about this person, but he could recall nothing beyond the simple fact of his silver hair.
He reached London at about half past four. The city was growing dark. Lights were glowing in all the shops, and the lamplighters were out in the streets. When he got to the corner of Oxford-street and New Bond-street he turned aside and rode to Hanover-square. He found Mr Norrell in his library, drinking tea.
Mr Norrell was, as ever, delighted to see the other magician and he was eager to hear all about Strange’s visit to the King.
Strange told him how the King was kept a solitary prisoner in his own palace, and he listed the spells he had done. But of the drenching of the Willises, the enchanted wood and the invisible flute-player he said not a word.
“I am not at all surprized that you could not help His Majesty,” said Mr Norrell. “I do not believe that even the Aureate magicians could cure madness. In fact I am not sure that they tried. They seem to have considered madness in quite a different light. They held madmen in a sort of reverence and thought they knew things sane men did not – things which might be useful to a magician. There are stories of both Ralph Stokesey and Catherine of Winchester consulting with madmen.”
“But it was not only magicians, surely?” said Strange. “Fairies too had a strong interest in madmen. I am sure I remember reading that somewhere.”
“Yes, indeed! Some of our most important writers have remarked upon the strong resemblance between madmen and fairies. Both are well known for talking without sense or connexion – I dare say you noticed something of the sort with the King. But there are other similarities. Chaston, as I remember, has several things to say upon the subject. He gives the example of a lunatic in Bristol who each morning told his family of his intention to take his walk in company with one of the dining chairs. The man was quite devoted to this article of furniture, considered it one of his closest friends, and held imaginary conversations with it in which they discussed the walk they would take and the likelihood of meeting other tables and chairs. Apparently, the man became quite distressed whenever any one proposed sitting upon the chair. Clearly the man was mad, but Chaston says that fairies would not consider his behaviour as ridiculous as we do. Fairies do not make a strong distinction between the animate and the inanimate. They believe that stones, doors, trees, fire, clouds and so forth all have souls and desires, and are either masculine or feminine. Perhaps this explains the extraordinary sympathy for madness which fairies exhibit. For example, it used to be well known that when fairies hid themselves from general sight, lunatics were often able to perceive them. The most celebrated instance which I can recall was of a mad boy called Duffy in Chesterfield in Derbyshire in the fourteenth century, who was the favourite of a mischievous fairy-spirit which had tormented the town for years. The fairy took a great fancy to this boy and made him extravagant presents – most of which would have scarcely been of any use to him in his right mind and were certainly no use to him in his madness – a sailing boat encrusted with diamonds, a pair of silver boots, a singing pig …”
“But why did the fairy pay Duffy all these attentions?”
“Oh! He told Duffy they were brothers in adversity. I do not know why. Chaston wrote that a great many fairies harboured a vague sense of having been treated badly by the English. Though it was a mystery to Chaston – as it is to me – why they should have thought so. In the houses of the great English magicians fairies were the first among the servants and sat in the best places after the magician and his lady. Chaston has a great many interesting things to say upon the subject. His best work is the Liber Novus.” Mr Norrell frowned at his pupil. “I am sure I have recommended it to you half a dozen times,” he said. “Have you not read it yet?”
Unfortunately, Mr Norrell did not always recall with absolute precision which books he wished Strange to read and which books he had sent to Yorkshire for the express purpose of keeping them out of Strange’s reach. The Liber Novus was safe on a shelf in the library at Hurtfew Abbey. Strange sighed and remarked that the moment Mr Norrell put the book into his hand he would be very glad to read it. “But in the meantime, sir, perhaps you would be so good as to finish the t
ale of the fairy of Chesterfield.”
“Oh, yes! Now where was I? Well, for a number of years nothing went wrong for Duffy and nothing went right for the town. A wood grew up in the market square and the townspeople could not conduct their business. Their goats and swine grew wings and flew away. The fairy turned the stones of the half-built parish church into sugar loaves. The sugar grew hot and sticky under the sun and part of the church melted. The town smelt like a giant pastry-cook’s. Worse still dogs and cats came and licked at the church, and birds, rats and mice came and nibbled at it. So the townspeople were left with a half-eaten, misshapen church – which was not at all the effect that they had in mind. They were obliged to apply to Duffy and beg him to plead with the fairy on their behalf. But he was sullen and would not help them because he remembered how they had mocked him in the past. So they were obliged to pay the poor, mad wretch all sorts of compliments on his cleverness and handsomeness. So then Duffy pleaded with the fairy and, ah!, what a difference then! The fairy stopped tormenting them and he turned the sugar church back into stone. The townspeople cut down the wood in the market place and bought new animals. But they could never get the church quite right again. Even today there is something odd about the church in Chesterfield. It is not quite like other churches.”
Strange was silent a moment. Then he said, “Is it your opinion, Mr Norrell, that fairies have left England completely?”
“I do not know. There are many stories of Englishmen and women meeting with fairies in out-of-the-way places in the last three or four hundred years, but as none of these people were scholars or magicians their evidence cannot be said to be worth a great deal. When you and I summon fairies – I mean,” he added hastily, “if we were so ill-advised as to do such a thing – then, providing we cast our spells correctly, the fairies will appear promptly. But where they come from or by what paths they travel is uncertain. In John Uskglass’s day very plain roads were built that led out of England into Faerie – wide green roads between high green hedges or stone walls. Those roads still exist, but I do not think fairies use them nowadays any more than Christians. The roads are all overgrown and ruined. They have a lonely look and I am told that people avoid them.”
“People believe that fairy roads are unlucky,” said Strange.
“They are foolish,” said Norrell. “Fairy roads cannot hurt them. Fairy roads lead nowhere at all.”3
“And what of the half-human descendants of fairies? Do they inherit their forefathers’ knowledge and powers?” asked Strange.
“Oh! That is quite another question. Many people nowadays have surnames that reveal their ancestors’ fairy origins. Otherlander and Fairchild are two. Elfick is another. And Fairey, obviously. I remember there was a Tom Otherlander who worked upon one of our farms when I was a child. But it is quite rare for any of these descendants of fairies to exhibit the least magical talent. Indeed more often than not they have a reputation for malice, pride and laziness – all vices for which their fairy-ancestors were well known.”
The next day Strange met with the Royal Dukes and told them how much he regretted that he had been unable to alleviate the King’s madness. Their Royal Highnesses were sorry to hear it, but they were not at all surprized. It was the outcome they had expected and they assured Strange that they did not blame him in the least. In fact they were pleased with all he had done and they particularly liked that he had not charged them a fee. As a reward they granted him their Royal Warrants. This meant that he could, if he wished, put gilt and plaster images of all their five coats of arms above his door in Soho-square, and he was at liberty to tell any one he liked that he was Magician to the Royal Dukes by appointment.
Strange did not tell the Dukes that he deserved their gratitude more than they knew. He was quite certain he had saved the King from some horrible fate or other. He simply did not know what it was.
34
On the edge of the desert
November 1814
Stephen and the gentleman with the thistle-down hair were walking through the streets of a strange town.
“Are you not growing weary, sir?” asked Stephen. “I know that I am. We have been walking here for hours.”
The gentleman let out a burst of high-pitched laughter. “My dear Stephen! You have only just this instant arrived! A moment ago you were at Lady Pole’s house, being forced to perform some menial task at the bidding of her wicked husband!”
“Oh!” said Stephen. He realized that the last thing he remembered was cleaning the silver in his little room near the kitchen, but that seemed like, oh!, years ago.
He looked around him. There was nothing here he recognized. Even the smell of the place, a mixture of spices, coffee, rotting vegetables and roasting meats, was new to him.
He sighed. “It is this magic, sir. It is so very confusing.”
The gentleman squeezed his arm affectionately.
The town appeared to be built upon a steep hillside. There did not seem to be any proper streets, but only narrow alleyways composed mainly of steps that wound up and down between the houses. The houses themselves were of the utmost simplicity; one might say severity. The walls were made of earth or clay, painted white, the doorways had plain wooden doors and the windows had plain wooden shutters. The steps of the alleys were also painted white. In all the town there did not seem to be so much as a spot of colour anywhere to relieve the eye: no flower in a flowerpot upon a windowsill, no painted toy left where a child had abandoned it in a doorway. Walking through these narrow streets was, thought Stephen, rather like losing oneself in the folds of an enormous linen napkin.
It was eerily silent. As they went up and down the narrow steps they heard the murmur of grave conversation coming from the houses, but there was no laughter, no song, no child’s voice raised in excitement. From time to time they met an inhabitant of the town; a solemn, dark-faced man dressed in a white robe and pantaloons with a white turban upon his head. All carried walking-sticks – even the young men – though in truth none of them seemed to be very young; the inhabitants of this town had been born old.
They saw only one woman (at least the gentleman with the thistle-down hair said it was a woman). She stood at her husband’s side robed from the crown of her head to the tip of her toe in a single garment the colour of shadows. When Stephen first saw her she had her back to him and it seemed in keeping with the dreamlike atmosphere of the place that as she turned slowly towards him, he saw that her face was not a face at all, but a panel of densely embroidered cloth of the same dusky hue as the rest of her garment.
“These people are very strange,” whispered Stephen. “But they do not appear to be surprized to find us here.”
“Oh!” said the gentleman. “It is part of the magic I have done that you and I should appear to them as two of their number. They are quite convinced that they have known us since childhood. Moreover you will find that you understand them perfectly and they will understand you – in spite of the obscurity of their language which is scarcely comprehensible to their own countrymen twenty-five miles away!”
Presumably, Stephen thought, it was also part of the magic that the town’s inhabitants should not notice how loud the gentleman spoke and how his words echoed from every white-washed corner.
The street they were descending turned a corner and ended abruptly at a low wall that had been put there to prevent unwary pedestrians from tumbling off the hill. From this spot the surrounding country could be viewed. A desolate valley of white rock lay before them under a cloudless sky. A hot wind blew across it. It was a world from which all flesh had been stripped, leaving only the bones.
Stephen would have supposed that this place was a dream or part of his enchantment, had not the gentleman with the thistledown hair informed him excitedly that this was, “… Africa! Your ancestral soil, my dear Stephen!”
“But,” thought Stephen, “my ancestors did not live here, I am sure. These people are darker than Englishmen, but they are far fairer than me.
They are Arabs, I suppose.” Out loud he said, “Are we going anywhere in particular, sir?”
“To see the market, Stephen!”
Stephen was glad to hear it. The silence and emptiness were oppressive. The market presumably would have some noise, some bustle.
But the market of this town proved to be of a very curious character. It was situated close to the high town walls just by a great wooden gate. There were no stalls, no crowds of eager people going about to view the wares. Instead everyone who felt at all inclined to buy any thing sat silently upon the ground with his hands folded while a market official – a sort of auctioneer – carried the goods about and shewed them to the prospective buyers. The auctioneer named the last price he had been offered and the buyer either shook his head or offered a higher one. There was not a great deal of variety in the goods – there were some bales of fine cloth and some embroidered articles, but mostly it was carpets. When Stephen remarked upon this to his companion, the gentleman replied, “Their religion is of the strictest sort, Stephen. Almost everything is forbidden to them except carpets.”
Stephen watched them as they went mournfully about the market, these men whose mouths were perpetually closed lest they spoke some forbidden word, whose eyes were perpetually averted from forbidden sights, whose hands refrained at every moment from some forbidden act. It seemed to him that they did little more than half-exist. They might as well have been dreams or ghosts. In the silent town and the silent countryside only the hot wind seemed to have any real substance. Stephen felt he would not be surprized if one day the wind blew the town and its inhabitants entirely away.
Stephen and the gentleman seated themselves in a corner of the market beneath a tattered brown awning.
“Why are we here, sir?” asked Stephen.
“So that we may have some quiet conversation, Stephen. A most serious matter has arisen. I am sorry to have to tell you that all our wonderful plans have been rudely overturned and once again it is the magicians who thwart us! Never was there such a rascally pair of men! Their only pleasure, I think, is in demonstrating their contempt of us! But one day, I believe …”
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Page 44
