by Ari Berk
“Pointless relics, I call such rites. You can be whatever you wish to be. Summon what you want by name and it shall come to you. Thinking makes it so.”
“So you mean if I had said ‘I am Janus,’ when I first arrived at Arvale, I would have been, even without the rituals?”
“Most certainly. But why stop there? Say you are Lord of the Dead, and watch what happens next.”
Silas paused, his voice trapped in his throat. How much did Cabel Umber know about him, about his vision on the Limbus Stone? After a moment of silence, Silas asked, “Is that who used to sit on the Ebony Throne? The Lord of the Dead?”
“They haven’t told you?” Cabel Umber’s voice rose, excited. He gibbered.
“No, not really. I’m not sure anyone up there really wants to say much about it.”
“I am sure you are right. But I can tell you this, if that chair is offered to you, think twice before taking it.”
“Why?”
“Because it carries with it a very great responsibility. You might wish to enjoy the pleasures of life and youth a little longer,” Cabel Umber said, softening his voice very deliberately.
“I see. It is still yours, then?”
“No, no. Long ago I sat there briefly, and it seemed likely I might hold that seat more permanently, but my allegiances eventually fell elsewhere,” he said looking again to the idol, as if for approval. “You should leave the throne be.”
“I thought you just told me I could proclaim myself anything I wanted to.”
“And so you can, but then you may find yourself in an awkward position. I am not talking about being a mere porter at the door, Silas Umber. No. I am referring to a more ancient post than that, one with a little more authority. One in which you might keep better company.”
“There is no need for you to worry about me, or indeed, for what you might have been. Your life has ended and the days of aspiration for you and for your immediate relations are long gone. Now, why not tell me what brought one so important as you to such an awful fate as this?” Silas said, trying to play to his ancestor’s easily discernible ego.
Cabel Umber’s face briefly contorted in anger, but then he closed his eyes and regained his composure.
“I did not come here. I was imprisoned here, Silas Umber. Do you think I placed this curse upon myself? I was put here. . . . Do you understand? I am a victim of a most terrible curse. A victim bound by blood! I long only for justice. For freedom. And now, here you are. I call that timely.”
As terrible as Cabel’s condition was to behold, Silas almost pitied him. All those years in the darkness below the earth. Who could bear such a fate? Still, it was clear that Cabel Umber was not speaking the whole truth of the matter.
“You are Janus now, are you not?” Cabel Umber asked.
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to congratulate you. Of course you are Janus. How easy it would be for you to free me. You, who can now command the dead at will. I do not suppose the others have told you about the extent of your authority, have they? That lot upstairs are so afraid of the Old Powers and Dominions they try desperately to forget them. Silas Umber, if you so desired, you could, with a word, command me from this place, or conjure me by name from this place unto some other. Try . . .”
“I must decline,” Silas said flatly, although inwardly intrigued. “But, if you don’t mind, let me tell you why I have come.”
“There is no need. I know why you are here. Very well. Cast your damning waters on me and let me forget at last!”
“That’s not it at all. I need your help.”
Cabel Umber began gnashing his teeth again. For several moments he did not speak, perhaps deep in thought, perhaps listening to something far away. “Silas Umber, I understand. This explains all the noise above, that adolescent screaming so familiar to me. You have become Janus. You have opened doors long sealed. I see what has happened. You have committed terrible errors in your exuberance and now seek to redress them.”
“Yes,” Silas responded, embarrassed. Pushing past his shame, he answered with directness. “I would like to set matters to rights, but before there is peace, the dead, like the living, must remember. Tell me, did you have any children? What were their names?” he asked.
“Oh, Silas Umber, little cousin, I know you wish more from me than mere biography. Oh, son, if I were free, I would put her back in the earth myself!”
The room went cold and fear took Silas in its teeth at the sound of those words. Cabel’s anger filled the chamber like acrid smoke, and Silas could feel the spirit’s desperate hate—how much he wanted to put his own child back down into that tiny vault of deep, unbreakable rock.
“Tell me your daughter’s name.”
“Impossible. I have no daughter.”
“You did have a daughter and you have one still. You locked her in a cell in the catacombs below this house and left her there to die. Whatever else she has become because of your actions, she remains your daughter. Even now, she assails this house.”
“I have no daughter,” Cabel Umber said softly, though light from a long-banished past now lit his eyes. “No loving daughter would do to her father what that one did . . . ,” he cried.
“If you could just tell me her name—”
The thing threw back his skull and wailed to the vault, “I HAVE NO DAUGHTER!”
Silas took a step back.
Cabel Umber quickly composed himself. He remained silent for several moments, then said, “I am sorry, Silas. Sorry you have been drawn into this awful business.” But his eyes brightened and his lip curled up, perhaps with inspiration or remembrance, or expectation. “Silas, I cannot tell you her name because I struck that name from the world. Even if I wanted to speak it now, I could not. It is gone. At that time, I was not without pouissance.”
Silas looked intensely at Cabel’s face. He wanted to believe his words, but the arrogant expression worn by the spirit told him that everything Cabel said was at best a partial truth.
“Silas, you have tried to call her to the stone?”
“I have. She will not come.”
“No. She was always willful, even in life. I can see this matter pains you.”
“I want to fix things. That’s all.”
“I see more sorrow than that in your eyes. There is grief born of your own losses. So we share something in common, more than merely a name. You have yourself lost a daughter? No. Not a daughter. There is a father once lost, that is easy to see. But such loss is common; there is one more particular. Someone young. A wife? A lover?” Silas could feel Cabel Umber looking at him, sifting through him for the knowledge he sought. It felt like fingernails being lightly drawn over his skull.
Silas couldn’t answer. He looked away.
“Yes. A lover. Tragic to lose a maiden in her blush. Trust me. I know.”
“I don’t know what you—”
“No need to hide it from me. Perhaps I can help you. I have endured so many losses, it would ease my heart to be able to help another. What is lost can almost always be found. I promise you, calling up the dead poses no real challenge. In my time, I summoned forth much greater personages than mere village ghosts. There are certain rites . . . I might gift you with a few references, some texts to look for, a few words to commit to memory, then you can bring her back as you see fit. You have the look of a scholar about you. Such arts, dark as they are, exist to be used by the wise.”
Bring. Her. Back.
The words burned into Silas’s heart like a glowing brand.
“It is not so difficult as most would have you believe. It is your especial right. In your way, I expect you have done it already. Of course, if you are Janus, you have taken first footing on this path. Have you not called a name to the black stone? Do not let some false morality cloud your mind. The common dead are cattle. We are their lords. But I digress. We are kin, after all, no? It is right that we should help each other. Let me help you,” said Cabel, leaning into the words as they left him.
&n
bsp; Though his mind churned with discomfort at whatever kind of deal was being subtly worked out, he could not push from his heart the image of Bea standing by his side again. Silas said, barely a whisper, “What would I have to do?”
Cabel Umber spoke softly then, continuing in an unctious and ingratiating tone.
“It’s not hard, Silas. There are many ways to raise the dead. But, I wonder if I might ask you for a little heart’s ease? Oh, dear Silas . . . just a little comfort. Some forgiveness. I know I must remain here, but the weight of my sins is terrible. If just someone would put their hand upon me and say ‘thou art forgiven.’ Please. You could do it, as Janus. Let me serve out my term here, not as sinner but instead pardoned, by your leave. I would remain a prisoner, but with a lighter heart.”
Cabel Umber began to writhe and turn as if a fire had been lit below him. “Merely a little sympathy . . .”
Despite his many misgivings, the words touched Silas, for wasn’t this almost always the case with the dead? Didn’t they all require some kind of absolution, the simple acknowledgment from the living that their words had been heard? Even the most horrific ghost needed to be heard and helped. How could I withhold that, even from one like him? Silas thought.
Silas reached out to put his hand upon Cabel Umber’s head, but something flashed suddenly, deep in the sockets of Cabel’s skull, and a low sound rose in his throat. Silas quickly drew back his hand and merely said aloud, “For all the troubles of your past, whatsoever they might be, and for what it’s worth, as I cannot free you, I do forgive you.”
The sound Cabel Umber made then was truly pitiful and it seemed, when he spoke again, that his words were pushed through tears.
“Even you, Silas, cannot bring yourself to touch me. Wretched I must be then if one so familiar with the horrors of death cannot bring himself to even lay his hand upon my shoulder.”
Guiltily, Silas stretched out his hand again, then paused. Was the partially revealed skull beginning to grin, were the thin tendrils of his sinewy jaw drawing tighter? No. He thought of his great-grandfather, and how he must have, so many times, appreciated the simple kindness of a touch.
Silas put his hand on Cabel Umber’s shoulder and said with more sincerity, “Cabel Umber, I forgive you.” Cabel let out a long breath, half sigh, half laugh. Though he was still bound by his curse, he looked as though the light of salvation had been cast upon him. He stood up from his chair, a garishly carved mockery of the throne in the hall of Arvale, and walked in a circle just inside the chalk line. He paced back and forth in front of Silas like an animal circumventing the bounds of its captivity.
The moment the words left him, Silas knew that while he had acted in kindness, it was also in ignorance. Something had changed. Now he was following someone else’s plan. Still, what if both of them might benefit? Was that wrong? Cabel’s daughter had cursed him. Silas knew that. Maybe, if they could bring her to the stone, she could be made to take the water. That was appropriate in any situation. He wouldn’t need to judge the father or the daughter guilty or innocent. Silas could just do his job.
Cabel inclined his head. “Ah. You are kindness personified. I could not ask for more beneficence, no, not even from Amos Umber himself. Now, Silas son of Amos, let me help you with your lost love, and then I shall tell you what we are going to do to resolve our mutual problem.
“There are rites. Some simple words, thankfully recorded in antiquity. It’s your right to study and use them. Had any of the family a little more decency, they would have taken care with your education. You can, if you wish, call her to you, and there will be little under heaven that can keep her from your side. Would you like to know the names of these books, the words of these spells? Ask, and they are yours.”
Silas’s heart was beating fast. All his good sense drowned out by the pounding rhythm of his desire and the chance at a solution to the nameless spirit’s release that might get him back to Lichport quickly. “Tell me.”
“Then lean a little closer. Such words should not hang upon the open air. Come closer and I’ll tell you.”
Silas leaned in until he was a foot away from the skull. Cabel had begun to shake in anticipation.
“Closer, I prithee.”
Silas inclined his head another inch.
“Clo-ser.”
Silas took another step and stood just the merest inch away from Cabel’s body on the other side of the pale chalk line inscribed on the floor.
“Let me put my mouth to your ear, son.”
Silas bent his head until he could almost feel the teeth of the skull scrape against his earlobe.
“Yessss . . . that’s better. Now,” said Cabel, hissing, “here are some words that you will find . . . efficacious.”
Cabel Umber whispered, and the words were like maggots crawling into Silas’s ear. Names of certain necromantic books of elder rites . . . The Spells of Ezekiel, The Dark Call, certain chapters of the Virgilian Heresies. Cabel Umber shared words and shards of advice, telling Silas what rites to find and which spells were best for summoning. The information swam in Silas’s mind, eddies and whirlpools of frightening invocations and grim phrases. He’d never be able to remember it all, though some words were familiar, the titles of rare volumes he might have seen in his uncle’s private library.
“Now,” said Cabel as he looked down at his empty hands, “I need you to bring me something, and with it, we shall put all to rights at Arvale. This is a very small thing. Long and long ago I hunted for it, but couldn’t find it. It’s mine by right and I still want it. We all bear our obligations, and I have made promises in life I have yet to fulfill. You see how they weigh upon me.”
“Name it,” said Silas. He had no other idea for how to silence the nameless spirit. If there was something that could help, he was willing to try it, even it meant he would have to negotiate with and possibly anger Cabel Umber later if they did not agree on the particulars. Besides, maybe whatever it was he needed to find was something Silas could use himself. Either way, Silas felt he had no choice but to finish what he’d started.
Perhaps sensing Silas’s hesitation, Cabel said, “Every parent must bear a portion of his children’s sins. That portion has been withheld from me. The right to restore honor to my house has been hidden from me.”
“I don’t believe in the sins of children.”
“You are fortunate in that, but you must allow me to remain a man of my own time. It is a father’s job to keep his family safe from sin. For sin is death, and death must be held at bay until the terrible day comes. The child sinned, and then she stole from me, and then she cursed me. I am a hunting man by nature, and I do not allow my quarry to escape. Until you released her, she had been well repaid for the shame she brought upon this house. She is nameless and lost and should have remained so. But the thing she carried with her out of this house, the thing that should have come to me . . . how I searched the vales and dells of the forest. How my dogs dug among the roots for its hiding place. I will not have the dignity of our name remain lost.”
Silas could see Cabel was becoming increasingly agitated. “I don’t take your meaning. She stole money, or something valuable? What could you possibly want with it now? I don’t understand. . . .”
Cabel Umber threw back his skull and wailed, “Bring unto me what is mine! The Mistle Child! Bring it to me and both our sorrows shall be ended!”
Silas had no idea what he meant. Perhaps some relic, a valuable carving, or a gold icon. What was a “Mistle Child”? He waited until Cabel had regained his calm. “If I can find such a thing, I will give it to you. And then you will show me how to settle the ghost of your daughter, right?”
Cabel sucked air through his teeth at the word “daughter,” as though it had been an arrow that struck him, but said, “Yes. Cousin Silas, you are indeed fortunate to have met me. Yes. Bring me the Mistle Child and all shall be well with this matter. You may kill two little birds with one stone. When you find the Mistle Child, my daugh—the other w
ill be no more trouble, I promise you. One is the key to the other. Bring me the Mistle Child, and all shall be well done. We are agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Cabel as he sat back down in his chair.
The air of the room stilled and grew heavy. A bargain had been struck. Silas already felt he’d done something wrong, but his desire was now all toward Beatrice and how quickly he could settle matters here and then get home to her. He turned to leave.
“What is this, no farewell for your ancestor?”
“Good-bye, Cabel Umber,” said Silas he left the room, eager to be away.
“All right, then,” Cabel began to shout through the closing door, “but hold to your promise, Silas Umber, or I shall know why not. We have made a bargain. So you will bring me what is mine. If you do not do this, I shall have something else in return. Promises have now been made and accounts must be paid. We are yoked together in obligation, Silas Umber. If you break with me, we shall speak again on this matter. Indeed we shall. And if it comes to that, I fear we shall never be friends. Never. Never. Never.”
LEDGER
Also beware that you do not lye too long under dust, nor in olde chambres whiche be not occupied or kept clene, specyally such chambres as spyders, myse, rattes, and snayles resortheth unto. For the howse is the verie mynd of man, and if it be allowed to become untidy, so shalle then owre verie thowts become lykwyse and no goode shalle come of it.
—FROM A COMPENDIOUS REGIMENT OF HOWSEHOLD HELTH, 1562
SILAS AND LARS SAT ON THE CARPET by the fire in Silas’s room, brushing the soot from their clothes. Silas had spoken very little since they’d returned from the sunken mansion. His mind turned with distraction, trying to sift through everything he’d heard there. He realized he might have asked Cabel Umber what a Mistle Child was. Cabel obviously assumed Silas knew or could figure it out. But something in Silas suspected that if Cabel had wanted to say more about it, he would have. Maybe, as with his daughter’s name, specificity regarding the Mistle Child was forbidden him.
