Maggie staggered back. She remembered her lone visit to the Royal Institution, a month earlier. She could hardly sleep the night before. Sanford had escorted her. An excitable young man—an acolyte of Davy—had lectured on advances in chemistry, especially the recent discoveries of barium, iodine, magnesium, potassium, and (her two favourites) niobium and colianasthium (which the speaker advocated calling “terentium”). What she most recalled, however, was not the content of the lecture, but the fact of her being the only dark face in the audience. White heads turned constantly to stare at her, dozens of viscounts, bishops, bannerets and banneresses, pointing, snickering, sending her (and Sanford) a thousand darts of icy, margravine pettiness.
Dear old Sanford. Maggie realized she was very fond of him. Perhaps ‘fond’ was too emollient a word; she would need to think of one more fitting. Sitting by her side, the two of them isolated in the back of the Institution hall, Sanford had pointedly ignored all the gaping, all the whispers. Sanford, she decided, was like an old medlar-fruit: tough and acerbic on the outside but, with time and mellowing (“bretting” is what Cook called it), his inner core turned soft and sweet.
Sally had ostentatiously decided not to attend the Institution that evening, despite being somewhat familiar with the speaker. Maggie remembered that too.
“Do not pretend to deny it,” said the Wurm. “You are condemned otherwise to suffer the delusions of Hope’s lacquered mime.”
The Owl advanced on her, arms outstretched, slowly swooping, his mouth a slit to swallow her.
Maggie stumbled backwards. The long-case clock, tunking and tinking to the rhythm of a distant place, pressed against her back and would not admit her.
Then, faint but sure, she heard Charicules singing—a nightingale far off, his assuasive tune unabridged and never ending. Small harlequin herald of the Great Mother, sing on! Farther off still, the Mother sighed and smiled in her long dream.
The Owl hesitated, veered away. Maggie pushed herself off the tall case of the huge clock, and stood so erect that she cast no shadow by the candlelight.
“Hollow-throated dragon-owl,” she sang. “See how you by the wick of your tongue bring up venom to scorch me, and how it does me no harm! Hear you how the Mother anoints me even as she sleeps? Oh yes, you feel that, I know you do. Who is deluded now, spiry worm?”
The Strix took a small step backwards, eyes blazing. He closed his mouth.
“I am beyond you, Old One,” sang Maggie, a deep, rapid trill that gained strength in the singing. “For all your grey-wether wisdom, you do not understand me. I re-fortune brass with my singing, annealing it with melody so smooth that one’s fingers are cut by the air when they leave the surface of the metal. I read a sundial by moonlight, etching with my madrigal the mathematics I derive there. I sing now the abu oma, a psalm of steam flowing through the whorled chamber and of the cylinder turning, of the wheels so finely made they define for us anew the word ‘circle.’ Nay, Old Nightmare, I am a student of new things, while you have passed your meridian—your philosophy vinewed, your insights decayed.”
The Owl retreated no further, but neither did he move towards her. In the deepest part of his mind, he experienced for the second time within an hour an emotion he had not felt for eons. First astonishment, now fear—the faintest flutterings of fear.
“Hoom, hoom, human,” he boomed. “I am a Dominion in the hierarchy that precedes the creation of your world. My time is always and forever.”
Maggie’s song beat down upon the Owl’s shoulders and head.
“I sing now of your sin—which was indecision and cowardice,” sang Maggie. “You sided in your heart with the rebellious ones, but you did not dare to declare yourself openly. Oh no, both sides derided you in the cataclysmic struggle, did they not? And still do, since that struggle is not ended. Lucifer will ever be remembered, proudly pent in his hell, but you—half-fallen, vicious but timid—you are just quaint mummery. Yours will only be a cenotaph, an empty tomb with its name effaced. I, on the other hand, I am very decisive. I will sing myself and all of my people free.”
The Owl surged forward, with such wells of malevolence in his round eyes that the clock stopped ticking.
Maggie sang even louder, with notes pure and true.
The Owl grappled with the air around her, but could not seize his prey.
Maggie smiled as she sang. The clock, starting up again, yielded this time to her, as she stepped backwards without taking her eyes off the Owl.
“Old Owl,” she sang. “Chi di, your day is coming very soon now.”
She stepped back through the clock. The Owl was rebuffed, could not follow her.
That night, residents in and around Hoxton Square trembled in their beds, as anguished groans and cries of rage filled the air.
Interlude: Fontes
May 20th, 1817.
Fezziwig & Co.,
St. Macaire Passage,
Aldgate, London
My dear esteemed friend Mr McDoon:
Per your instructions received on the 15th inst., I hereby—but most sadly—cancel your order for three new waistcoats.
May I say that it grieves me sorely to learn of your recently straitened circumstances and that I pray for the swift restoration of your natural state.
As a token of my true concern, and sincerest demonstration of my unquenchable friendship for you and your house, I offer you one waistcoat—a quinette whose background is mulberry, with ebony flashings and the most delicate pale yellow border-stitchings—at half my usual asking. I recall that the quinette is a favourite of yours, and also well-liked by your niece.
Your most humble servant
—Alexander Edward Fezziwig
[Letter from Reglum to Dorentius, May 27th, 1817; translated from the Yountish]
Dear Dorentius:
Your letter of May 24th pleased me no end. I am so happy that your visit to Cambridge goes so well, especially the reunion with your old Caius College friend, Mr. Woodhouse.
You know I do not comprehend the outer, more abstruse elements of the mathematics required by the Fulginator, but I certainly appreciate their importance;—hence, my excitement at learning that Mr. Woodhouse has been able to illuminate for you those isoperimetrical equations which have eluded you and Miss Collins these past months.
I hereby remind you—as you requested upon your departure last week—to take up with Mr. Woodhouse his ideas on the method for best solving what you and Miss Collins call ‘the problem of necessary abaxility.’
Miss Collins sends her regards. She misses her discussions with you; I think her work on the Fulginator suffers in your absence, to the detriment of us all. Without her, we would have no chance (in my estimation) of making the Great Fulginator a reality. Miss Collins is a talent of the highest water, ‘the osprey who uses an astrolabe to calculate the patterns of its flight’ [English has no exact equivalent for this Yountish expression, so the phrase is literally translated here]. It pains me to see her so shunned by so many; she has done nothing to deserve the spite and calumny that finds its way to her door. As you and I have discussed, she might be better off in Yount than here, though that would have to be a decision of her own making, not ours.
Most painful of all to me is the continuing carriage and attitude of Sally towards her family, and towards me. The change that has come over Sally is shocking and sad to perceive. I will not belabour the issue here, as you and I have spoken of this many times, but I beg you listen to my complaints just a little longer, dear friend.
As you know, Sally has long held my heart in fee simple [this legalistic term best conveys the sense of the Yountish original], yet—as she apparently has offered her own to another, without clearly relinquishing her claim on mine—I am now utterly confounded. Worse, I suffer from a saturation of violet-purple thoughts, which begin to threaten my sense of life.
I cannot bear much more of her indifferent veto and disregard. I am tempted to ‘sew buttons on the kraken’s jacket’ [a Yountish sa
ying that implies an action of well-deliberated but futile heroism, not to be mistaken with bravado or impulsive acts]. I confide this to you, Dorentius, because we are not only two Yountian exiles, we are friends . . . and hatmoril.
Please forgive the depressing raiment of this letter; do not give up on its author. I look forward to your return in a fortnight’s time. Write again soon, with more news about Cambridge—which, though it is not Oxford, is I am sure a worthy approximation.
Yours in friendship always
—Reglum
[The following is translated from the Chinese]
To His Most Excellent Scholarship,
the Third Chancellor for Foreign Relations,
at the Court of His Celestial Majesty,
the Jiaquing Emperor,
From his humblest servant, Tang Guozhi.
I write this from the ship that is bringing us from Cape Town to London; we have crossed the southern Atlantic and are now refreshing our stores at Recife in Brazil. I will post this letter back to you on one of the East Indiamen just arrived from London here at Recife, bound for China.
The captain of our vessel says we shall sail the day after tomorrow, winds and tide permitting of course; with a fair weather and no mishaps, we can expect to arrive in London medio August.
I have little to add to the many reports I sent from Cape Town, but will emphasize that the British clearly intend to find Yount with the purpose of acquiring that legendary land for their ever-growing empire. Given their rapacity and their recent great victory over the French, and especially their endless wars in India, the British must be considered a significant threat; I know that many at the Celestial Court do not share this evaluation, indeed they seem barely aware of the British challenge, but I will continue to issue my warnings in the hopes that it is not too late to counter their encroachments.
While in Cape Town, I heard much of British ambitions in Sumatra and other parts of the Long Archipelago, their having returned those lands to the Dutch notwithstanding; also, they clearly intend to swallow all of India, and appear to be contemplating war with the Kingdom of Burma, which would put the British on our Chinese doorstep.
Consider too their methodical acquisition of ports across and around the Indian Ocean, an unequivocal indication of their strategic design: the new harbour at Simon’s Town in South Africa, freshly gained anchorage rights at Diego Suarez and Tamatave on the island of Madagascar, the taking in the last decade from the French of Mauritius, Diego Garcia, and the Chagos Islands (situated as these are at the heart of the Indian Ocean), the plans to build out the deep-water harbour at Trincomalee on Ceylon, their ceaseless work on the harbours at Bombay, Madras, Calcutta, and a dozen smaller places along the Malabar and Coromandel coasts. We learn that they are surveying the western coast of Australia, that they exert pressure on the Persian port of Comrow (that is also called Bandar Abbas), they meddle in the affairs of Aden, and court favour with the Sultan of Zanzibar.
What can all this mean but a very well-contemplated plan by Great Britain to encircle and control the gateways to Yount? The very portals which our illustrious Admiral Cheng Ho discovered on his mighty voyages fully four centuries ago and which many of His Imperial Worship’s philosophers and analysts have verified and studied since, are these to be surrendered without so much as a protest? Our Chinese claims and right to priority can hardly be disputed, and yet the British are utterly disrespectful of our rights, shunting them aside with a breathtaking arrogance—must we bear such indignities?
I beg leave to conclude this missive, but will send you word immediately upon our arrival in London. I urge you to continue your excellent work of influence upon members of the Court who may not fully grasp the severity of the situation and the potential for loss if we do not act, swiftly and decisively, on behalf of the Emperor.
With my most humble obediencies,
—Tang Guozhi,
Special Emissary
[A notice from Grandison’s Weekly Record, issue 32, August 1817]
Bethnall Green, Limehouse and Wapping have once again been visited by scenes of tumult and disputation these past two weeks, in the form of loud and vocal contests between various religious factions of the Dissenting and Ranting varieties. Reports are mixed and obscure, but the main division appears to be between those known as ‘Hennites’ or ‘Hen’s Men’ (though many of the so-called men are actually females, which is a scandal in its own right) and those who follow the preaching of one Peasestraw. The origins of the disagreement are—as is so often the case in matters religious and especially among the fissiparous sects of individual fanaticism—but dimly to be understood, if they can be understood at all. What is understood is that the public order has frequently been breached, with outcries, taunts, jeers, old fruit and vegetables thrown as missiles at opponents, etc.. It should also be understood that all good subjects of the King and parishioners of the various afflicted localities need call upon the warring parties to cease their unconscionable actions towards one another, towards bystanders who are in no fashion involved and towards property.
[From the chapbook, Cries and Crudities of London, as Commonly Heard and Collected in the Year 1817, by an Amateur]
Who is scared of Jenny with the
Green Teeth?
Not I, not I. (I am, I am.)
Who is scared of Aunt Peg Tantrum
and Old Yallery Brown?
Not I, not I. (I am, I am.)
Who is scared of Blue Annis Lady
and the Gallow’s Man?
Not I, not I. (I am, I am.)
[An encrypted report from Captain Shufflebottom of the Admiralty’s Special Branch to his superiors, the two gentlemen known only as Mr. I. and Mr. Z.; some elements of what follow are speculative, given the difficulties of deciphering the Admiralty’s code]
August 10th, 1817
Sirs,
Little additional to relay on the matter of Kidlington, who is easily enough marked by Lt. Thracemorton, not least because Kidlington is very frequently at his lodgings (as he often entertains there the Miss Sarah MacLeish). I assume Lt. Thracemorton’s reports to you confirm what I say here.
Freed partly from the duty tracking Lt. Thracemorton, which is to say minding Kidlington, I have taken liberties to increase my vigilance vis-à-vis the Others, whose numbers and activities expand almost daily.
Their particular attention is definitely the Blackwall shipyard, for reasons that are all too logical. The Power or Faculty that protects the shipyard is too strong for the prowling Minions to breach, but they never let slip an opportunity to gain entrance and do harm when and where they can. They are busily relentless in their efforts, walking by night (and now sometimes even by day) around the perimeter of the shipyard like wolves around a sheep-fold.
They are equally industrious in their initiatives elsewhere, and—since these places are less well picketed—more easily persuaded to cause mischief at, say, the Maudslay works in Lambeth, the Gravell clockmaking premises in Clerkenwell, the Wornum pianoforte factory on Wigmore Street.
I shot one of the Others two nights ago, on the stairs near Calloway Close in Limehouse, a small being with a very sanguineous and speckled complexion, a mouth that worked more like a pike’s or a salmon’s than that of a human person’s, and a ruff of bristly, stiff hair like that of a heron or a crake. I used bullets sheathed in regulus of antimony, which were most effective. Unfortunately, the corpse dissolved before I could arrange for it to be transported to the Experimentarium for further examination, excepting only its teeth, some of its vertebrae and random other bones.
The creature I shot two weeks ago—the large one with the nuchal gills, near the Greenland Docks at Gascoigne’s Chare—did not decompose so rapidly;—he needed an entire, obese carboy for the pickling, but it was worth the expense and effort, as our Experimenters tell me they have learned much from the dissection of this one’s anatomy.
For the benefit of my brethren in the Corps Venatical, I add the following notes
for inclusion in our archives:
• Dr. Dee’s Glyph remains the most potent sign available to us; only the most incautious or passionate Others will ignore this symbol.
• Only slightly less useful are Fludd’s Mundane Music, Lambsbrinck’s Fifth Figure, and the Corascene Dog, especially when combined in each case with the Prayer of St. Macrina.
• Sir Isaac Newton’s calculations on the sacred geometry of Solomon’s Temple, and in particular those pertaining to the golden ratios, provide excellent graphing for the laying of ambuscades and enfilades against the Others; I will leave it to my more mathematically inclined colleagues to understand why this might be so, but I have seen how practical Sir Isaac’s work is in this quarter.
• Among the chemical compounds, besides the regulus of antimony, I find most beneficial: orpiment and the other arsenical bases, Homburg’s phosphorus, and cennus of Saturn (but be sure it is calcined very well). On the other hand, luna cornea and its derivatives have but feeble impact.
• I cannot recommend the Egg of Ostanes, as it too often fails to ignite. Also, the relics of Saint Praxedes had no signal effect on any of the Others.
• Using the tabellae defixiones and other necromantic items might seem counter-productive, blasphemous or both, but I have tried them—using a flame to fight a flame, as it were—and will attest to their efficacy.
Until my next report, scheduled in two week’s time,
I am your most humble servant
—Captain Shufflebottom
P.S. Please have the Librarian retrieve the Ezekiel Foxcroft testimonial from 1670, the one in which he outlines how best to ‘hunt the Green Lion.’ I will explain to my lords on my next visit why Foxcroft’s investigation may be helpful to us.
P.P.S. Still no sign of the one called The Cretched Man. Very odd, and beyond my ability to explain. But the one we managed to capture and question last month—the female with the purple eyes, whose back was hollow like a bread-pan under her beautiful dress (she being the one who lured Richard Morgan to his death)—told us that she and all the Others consider The Cretched Man the worst of all traitors and would have nothing to do with him, except to hunt him down themselves. What the nature of his betrayal was she would not say, and I cannot imagine;—these creatures have a different morality than ours. Before she died, the prisoner added that some other Being has come to London, to replace The Cretched Man, someone with greater powers and a strict adherence to mission. She only laughed when we tried to find out more from her. Whoever this new authority or leader may be among the Others, he appears to be mighty indeed, which is cause for concern.
The Indigo Pheasant: Volume Two of Longing for Yount: 2 Page 15
