The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “Foolish boy,” he said. “You cannot–-”

  With a tremendous scream, I rushed forward and lodged the holy blade straight in his eye. A scream from his throat met with mine, and his body began to tremble and shiver. Smoke — or steam — rose from any number of openings that I had rent in his awful form.

  Why did someone not come? I wondered.

  I looked at the smoking ruin on the bed and determined that this would be an end of it. I sat at the end of the bed and waited for all sounds to cease aboard the dahabeya. In the small hours of the morning, I wrapped the inert form in my sheet, as if it were a shroud, and dragged him from my cabin to the upper deck. There, the porters were snoring in hammocks.

  By this time, I was exhausted and trembling almost uncontrollably. In order not to wake the porters, I dragged him laboriously to the other side of the cabin, where no one slept. I rolled the body close to the edge of the deck and, finding a gap where the moorings and ropes were kept, I thrust the body over the side.

  He slid into the Nile’s dark waters like an unwanted fish and, unlike any human body save that weighted by stones, sank silently head-first as soon as he entered the water. All of this had been nearly as silent a thing as could be. Only after the body sank did I comprehend. Osiris suffered no pain and did not cry out, because he had not been alive in the first place. The second thought, that if not alive, perhaps he would not now be dead, was inevitable.

  I leaned on the bulwark and put my head in my hands. I cannot be certain, but I believe that this was the moment when I finally began to weep.

  At last, we left Alexandria, headed for the storied city of Rome. After the horrible night on the dahabeya, I fell quite ill. They said that I was insensible for days, and I remember little of that time. As we sailed the Mediterranean, I gradually came to my senses, and when at last, our vessel reached Civitavecchia, I was eager to make landfall, and enthusiastically painted the large castle at that harbour, named for Michelangelo.

  I could barely contain my excitement as our coach approached the Eternal City. I was somewhat surprised to see that its seven hills were not nearly so large or dramatic as I had imagined. As we reached our lodgings, quite luxurious in comparison to those we had endured in Egypt and the Holy Land, I realised that we were quite near the Palazzo Farnese, whereupon I immediately took my sketchbook and paints to depict that famous edifice. For his part, Sir Thomas said he would go to the antiquities market, as he had conceived an urgent desire to obtain some of the treasures which were so readily available, and so readily affordable, in that place.

  Having finished my sketches, I retired for a nap — una pennichella — the proper way to say it in Roman, according to the lady of the house where we lodged. As with most places near the Mediterranean, Rome was quite warm in the afternoon, and most of the residents, having risen early, slept in the hot hours following the mid-day meal. Sir Thomas, of course, was still at the antiquities market; I had no idea when he would return.

  The light was fading when I woke and, yawning, realised that I had not wakened of my own accord, but rather, there was a scratching at my window. Immediately, my stomach churned and my breath caught in my throat. Creeping to the window, I threw open the wood shutters. Was it he?

  No — there was nothing there.

  A fruit-seller and an urchin selling boiled eggs were calling for their wares from the cobbled street below. Both called up at me, and though I understood little Italian, it was obvious that they wanted me to throw on my jacket and come downstairs.

  Shaking my head, I began to close the sash when I heard a faint rapping and commotion that made me pause.

  “Richard Dadd!” called the tiniest voice I had ever heard.

  Looking down at the sill, I saw a perfectly formed man the size of my palm. He looked a substantial sort, with a ruddy face smiling up at me beneath a braided bi-corned hat, rather like those worn by Napoleon’s marshals, equally ruddy muttonchops, a red woollen jacket, golden sash, and navy trousers stuffed in well-worn leather boots that rose to above his knees. The only things that set him apart from an ordinary man, other than his miniscule size, were his curiously wide-set almond-shaped eyes. Then I noticed the pair of delicately pointed ears that poked out from under the hat.

  “I’ve gone mad,” I said.

  “No,” said the small man. “You must listen to me. We have a very important message for you.”

  I am certain now that it was the fellow’s size or perhaps his firm and confident manner of speaking that bade me to invite him into my room. He leapt neatly from the windowsill onto my bedside table, where he promptly sat, crossed his legs, removed a tiny long-stemmed pipe from his vest pocket, filled it with tobacco, struck an infinitesimally-small match on the heel of his boot, and began to smoke.

  “If you are a fairy, sir, where are your wings?” I asked. Clearly, I was still dreaming, but while in such a dream, there could be no harm in dreamlike conversation with such a harmless and charming little fellow.

  He puffed a bit on the pipe and blew a ring of smoke. “Under my jacket, of course,” he said laconically.

  “And what may I call you, sir?” I inquired.

  “Blue Jack,” he said the lilting accent of a Welshman.

  “And to what do I owe your auspicious presence?” I asked.

  “Queen Mab did send me,” he said. “And Titania and Oberon too.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “And how may I aid those august personages?”

  “There’s a fearful danger,” said he. “Most deadly and terrible to all faerie folk. And to fellows like you.”

  “Fellows like me?” I asked.

  “You cannot tell me that you haven’t already seen the fae,” he said. “We have seen your pictures and know them to be true. No man draws aught he dinna see.”

  “I — yes, I made some fairy pictures,” I said. It is true, I had drawn some seaside scenes and one of the aforementioned Oberon and Titania. These were but for the entertainment of children and, perhaps, a way to gently twit the boy Millais, who had joined the Academy at the absurd age of eleven, and whose childlike enthusiasms were of course, all well and good for such a child, but which failed to take note of the seriousness required of all genuine artists.

  “Like unto life!” exclaimed Blue Jack, rising quickly to his subject.

  I laughed at this. “I have seen much that is strange of late,” I told him. “You seem a pleasant enough fellow, but I believe that now it is time for me to wake from my nap.”

  “You are awake,” said Blue Jack. “What’s more, you know the danger of which I speak, better than any other man.”

  The pleasant dreaming diversion began to darken from dream to black nightmare with each of his words. I did know a danger — a danger that I had dispatched upon the Nile with the dagger blessed by the Muslim holy man.

  “I — I do know something,” I said. “But it’s done. He is no more.”

  “Nay,” said Blue Jack. “He is here — in Rome, as Mab is my witness.”

  “I killed him,” I said. “With my own —”

  “Ye cannot kill such as he so easily,” said Blue Jack. “Now, put your ear close to me and listen to what you must do.”

  Although I wanted to protest, I felt compelled as by some magical force to lean close to the tiny phantom figure. Blue Jack whispered quickly in my ear.

  The fiend who had pursued me so relentlessly was not alone. He was part of a vast conspiracy that had begun with Byron and Shelley, misguided men trying to take the power of nature itself, whose creation had escaped, along with its creator. Now there was no limit to this conspiracy, said Blue Jack. Fairies did not often meddle in the matters of men, but in this extremity, they had broken their ironclad rule. I was not the only one they had approached, but I was specially — chosen.

  Oh, how tired I had become of those words!

  “If they have their way, Richard Dadd, all magic will fade from the world. All faith, and all goodness. We fae will become a thing of the
past, and the world will be poorer because of it.”

  I looked down upon his small and honest face. Though it seemed impossible to conscience, I had faced the mad creature that called himself Osiris. I knew he meant nothing good — for me, or for the rest of the world. Such madness for power could never have a good result, and such unnatural yearnings would always bring destruction and despair.

  “Blue Jack, I know people will think me mad,” I said, “but I do believe you. What is it you would have me do?”

  “You must warn others,” said Blue Jack. “They operate now in secret, and if their secret is out, then their plot will never succeed. No one would willingly turn themselves into a machine, or let themselves be ruled by such if they had their druthers.”

  “I — I do not think that people will believe me,” I said. Sir Thomas believed me to be unstable already; how many times had I needed to rest because of what he termed “sunstroke.” I had only just recovered from the fever that had overtaken me after my battle on the Nile with Osiris.

  “Not at first,” said Blue Jack. “And there’s danger the other way as well. Fairies do not wish most people to be visiting our lands, tromping about, destroying people’s homes, and the like.”

  “Well, what can I do? Are you certain — certain that the one who was following me is not dead? I threw his body into the Nile myself. I watched it sink like a stone.”

  Blue Jack shook his head and shrugged. “Nay. We have seen him recently, and he is closer than you think.”

  “I — I won’t let him hurt me, or Sir Thomas,” I said. “He deceived me once. He shall not succeed again. I have the —” I looked over at the nightstand, where the holy dagger rested in its scabbard.

  “Aye, that is a good blade,” said Blue Jack. “But I fear it may not be sufficient.”

  “How may I destroy him?” I asked.

  “Ye cannot let him remain whole,” said Blue Jack. “If ye wish to destroy him, ye must take him apart bit by bit, and then smelt the metal and make an end of him at last.”

  I thought about the effort it had taken to throw him from the dahabeya and how hard it had been to recover afterward.

  “There must be someone else,” I said. “Why not Sir Thomas? He’s a hero. He faced down the Chartist rabble singlehanded!”

  “Och,” declared Blue Jack. “There’s a difference between a brave man and one who can fight with the fairies. He would’na recognise me if I leapt up and tweaked his nose and lit a match under it, and ye know it.”

  I sat down on the bed and put my hands on my knees. I did know it. In fact, I did not know a solitary soul who would think me other than utterly insane if I were to utter a word of this. Not Egg, not Powell — and certainly not phlegmatic, practical Sir Thomas, who did not really believe in the divine nature of Jesus Christ, much less a fairy kingdom. I sat for a long while in silence, until the tiny fellow grew restive and waved his pipe about.

  “Ye must consider what I say,” said Blue Jack.

  “I will,” I told him.

  “We can promise you riches if you succeed,” said the fairy soldier.

  “I need no wealth,” I said.

  “Spoken like a true gentleman,” Blue Jack replied. Then, seemingly satisfied, he leapt up on the windowsill, removed his coat and unfurled his tiny diaphanous wings, and took flight.

  After a moment, I got up, shut the window, and sat in the growing darkness, without even a candle for light. It was some time later that Sir Thomas returned, with tales of dozens of purchases that he meant to ship for home. Tomorrow, he said, we would have an audience with the Pope himself, then return to the harbour to secure the goods for shipping.

  I allowed as this was a marvellous thing, but had difficulty sleeping. For a lifetime, I had dreamed of seeing the great chapel painted by Michelangelo and the other treasures of the Vatican. As to the Pope, I of course did not recognise his primacy; yet I was by nature immersed in the truth of Christ’s godhood and the twin miracles of his birth and resurrection.

  Now my mind was consumed by fear and worry. I was not afraid of the fae soldier, of course, but I desperately wished that the warnings of Blue Jack were phantasies. Of course they were. How could such things be true? And I had seen Osiris’ body sink beneath the waters of the Nile myself. I had put him there by my own hand. Hadn’t I?

  “It’s a perfectly awful excursion,” said Sir Thomas as we crossed into the Papal States. He had somehow managed to obtain an invitation to a private viewing with the Pontiff, his Holiness Gregory XVI. To my absolute horror as we left our lodgings near the Palazzo Farnese, Sir Thomas confided in me that we would be accompanying a party of strict German papists, who were there to present a number of gifts and make obeisance to the Holy Father.

  “But, Sir Thomas,” I said as we entered our carriage, “You know I cannot bear that sort of pious German. They’ll talk of nothing but relics and the holy order. It’s Papism of the worst sort! Besides, I hear that this Pope —” and I caught myself short.

  “Hear what, Dicky?” drawled Sir Thomas, making himself comfortable in the bouncing coach.

  “Oh, simply that the Pope is not very — amenable — to Englishmen,” I muttered, ill-at-ease.

  It seemed auspicious, and dreadfully so, that I recalled what I had read about this particular Pope prior to embarking on this Grand Tour. It seemed that, in addition to being a reactionary sort, utterly opposed to any of the new Democratic movements sweeping the Continent, birthed by the French uprising and Napoleonic upheavals, Pope Gregory XVI was opposed to any sort of modern convenience and conveyance, including gaslamps and railways. What he would have thought of the new airships that had yet to reach the Papal States, I dared not imagine. As to steam engines and railways, which were called chemin de fer or “iron road” by the French, the Pope had styled these, chemin d’enfer — literally, “road to Hell.”

  As if he could read my mind (dreadful thought, that!), Sir Thomas crossed his arms behind his head, leaning back, and said, “I suppose I was reading the other day that the Pope said there would never be a railway in this part of Italy.”

  “Yes, well, there’s no telling what a mad Papist such as he would say. It’s not very often one gets this chance though, Dicky. Let’s put a good face on it. I dare say we’ll see sights we’d never see if we weren’t here. You can put up with a few stiff-necked Germans for an hour or so, can’t you?”

  I allowed as I could, and travelled the rest of the way to the Quirinal Palace with my stomach bubbling with acid and unease. As the Palace was not far from the famous Trevi Fountain, I smiled as we passed that storied place, and told Sir Thomas I wished we could return there later. It would make, I told him, a marvellous picture.

  At our arrival, the Germans were already milling about in the Piazza outside the Palace. A detachment of a dozen Noble Guards emerged from the Palace, and their leader, a tall blond fellow, bowed to us and requested that we follow them into the Palace in creditable English and, from what Sir Thomas muttered to me, excellent German.

  After surmounting the many white steps to the Palace, we entered a long white marble hall which then led into the Hall of the Corazzieri. The self-named Corazzieri, wearing shiny silver armour and ornately-worked helmets, almost immediately entered the opposite side of the long gallery. I was struck by their elegantly-tailored uniforms beneath the armour. Then, I looked up and fell dumb at the sight of the vast frieze and brilliant fresco that adorned this Hall, so elegant were the forms of the angels and demons it portrayed.

  We stood for some time at the north entrance of the great Hall, as the Corazzieri took their positions, crossing their halberds to guard the tall double doors. The Germans babbled among themselves, pointing here and there at the frescos and crying out their long, guttural words.

  I heard a cry of “Il Papa!” from the Germans’ guide. The Corazzieri dropped their halberds, and the doors swung open. A brace of Cardinals emerged first, their long red cassocks sweeping the floor, and finely-worked white
and lacy rochets swaying, as delicate as a young girl’s dress.

  Then came the Holy Father himself. His cassock was pure white, trimmed with gold and, about his shoulders, he wore a heavily worked white and gold chasuble. About his neck was yet another round silken collar, from which hung two red crosses. His balding pate was covered with a small gold and white cap, and he carried a tall pastoral staff topped with an ancient crucifix. With a great mutual groan, the dozen Germanic pilgrims dropped to their knees like so many black and grey stones. Immediately, they began to pray in German and Latin, and held up their crucifixes for the Holy Father to bless.

  With a faint smile, the Pontiff turned toward us, and inclined his head at the instantaneous worship. When he saw Sir Thomas and myself, still standing, his broad Italian brow furrowed.

  He spoke a few words in Latin that I did not comprehend at all. Sir Thomas put his hand on my shoulder — and even that old disbeliever pushed me downward as he knelt himself.

  “When in Rome,” he whispered.

  I took his meaning, but I saw the most curious shadow go across the face of the Holy Father.

  And then — I knew. This was no mortal man! He was of the same sort as Osiris — an infernal walking, talking machine!

  “No!” I cried, leaping up. I scarcely knew what I did, for I heard myself screaming as the Cardinals scattered and the Holy Infernal Father stood, struck dumb for my having found him out. What would the demon do — say?

  I did not have the opportunity to find out, for the Corazzieri rushed forward, halberds at the ready, and grasped both of my shoulders and the nape of my neck in their cold, mailed hands.

  “It’s not the Pope!” I cried. “He’s no normal man!”

  “Dicky!” yelled Sir Thomas. Then he began to hastily tell the guards that I was not myself of late, that I had been too much in the sun. We had been on a long journey, and I could not be held accountable.

  “Un povero pazzo,” said the Pontiff. “Dio ti benedicta.”