The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  “And if she hasn’t answered, we send her one of his fingers?”

  “That’s right. Make it a little one — he is a doctor after all. Wouldn’t want to hamper his work.”

  Marie’s heart went cold. The two men descended the staircase with enough clattering to raise the dead. Marie crossed herself and slid her fingers around her gris-gris.

  She heard no more steps, nor the door closing. The light coming out of it was still strong.

  Mr. White. What did he want from Mary? It seemed he already could move a soul from a body to a machine.

  No, Moma Shanti had done that.

  Marie’s eyes narrowed. What Moma Shanti had done to Immanuel was against the principles of voudon, but that was an argument for another place and time. Marie blamed Mr. White for corrupting her.

  What Mr. White wanted from Mary, then, was a way to use technology to do what Moma Shanti had done through voudon. Marie could understand his wish. Mary’s way would be far more efficient. If Moma Shanti was so exhausted after moving only one soul, then she probably could not do it more than once or twice a month, if that.

  Cold anger began to fill Marie like water rising in a well. She suspected she knew why Mr. White wanted greater efficiency in dividing souls from their flesh. To confirm it she must go ashore, leave the boat. She would seek for Immanuel’s body at the same time.

  She bent lower, crouching with the calliope between herself and Mr. White. A couple of aimless footsteps told her he still stood on the deck before his cabin. She drew a long breath and let it out slowly.

  “Play something for me.”

  Marie jumped at the sudden words. She cringed lower.

  “Something slow,” Mr. White added.

  Had he seen her, then? She held her breath.

  The calliope began to play, making her jump again. The music was familiar, slow and melancholy. Beethoven, Marie thought, then she smiled.

  It was the “Moonlight Sonata.” Clair de Lune.

  She glanced up at the sky, just in time to see the moon emerging from behind the airship. Its pale light bathed the deck in sudden brightness, blinding her for a moment.

  A scrape of a shoe on the deck. Mr. White had turned to look.

  He must not notice the airship.

  Marie rose from behind the calliope, to see Mr. White staring at the sky. Without pausing to consider, for she knew that would rob her of courage, she ran for the head of the stairs.

  She was quiet without her shoes, but not silent. Mr. White’s startled voice followed her. Down and down she ran, no longer bothering to try for stealth. Her feet boomed on the wooden steps like a drum.

  Mr. White shouted something, she did not hear what. She reached the middle deck and darted down the next staircase.

  Heavy footfalls overhead. He pursued her. At the bottom of the stairs she ran for the gangplank.

  Something struck her across her stomach. She sprawled, gasping, on the deck.

  She knew what had happened. Mr. White had called the watchman. She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath.

  Heavy footsteps rumbled on the gangplank. Rough hands grasped her shoulders and turned her over. She lay with eyes closed, still gasping, feeling the pain of the blow wash through her middle.

  “Bring her into the light.”

  Marie was hauled to her feet and pushed forward a few steps, then halted. She bent over, unable to stand straight, struggling not to fall.

  “Masquerading as Moma Shanti? A dangerous trick.”

  “Put her in with the slaves, sir?”

  “Just a moment. Let me look at her.”

  A hand grabbed Marie’s chin and forced it upward. An angry man stared at her — Mr. White. An ugly smile spread on his face.

  “I thought you looked familiar. How much is Mrs. Dessins paying you to spy for her?”

  Marie would not have answered, even if she could. As it was, she still had trouble breathing. The deck of the boat looked so comfortable. She closed her eyes.

  “Well, now she’ll have to pay it to me instead, if she wants you back. Actually, she’ll probably have to pay a deal more than you demanded.” Mr. White sounded bored. “No, she doesn’t belong with the slaves, despite her attire. Not yet, anyway. Put her in with our guest. Perhaps I will give her to Moma Shanti.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hands grasped Marie’s upper arms ungently, propelling her toward the gangplank. Men on either side. She looked back and glimpsed the watchman and Mr. White standing together on the lower deck.

  The men pushing her were impatient. Marie could not walk as fast as they wished, but if she stumbled they dragged her until she found her feet again.

  Gradually the pain and nausea subsided to a bearable ache. She was able to see that they were taking her to the smallest of the mill buildings, the farthest from the shore. As they passed between the two larger structures, the noise of the machinery rattled in her head, thumping and pounding and grinding.

  It seemed a long way, much farther than it had looked to her before. When they reached the building one of the men spoke to a watchman by the front door. They took her inside and made her climb up stairs — endless stairs — which made her hurt again.

  At last they reached a long hallway. Like the rest of the building, it was lit with gas lamps — an extravagance for a place that at this hour would likely be empty.

  But no, Mr. White’s mills ran at all hours. Perhaps this building, which seemed to house offices, was likewise constantly busy.

  These thoughts drifted through Marie’s mind as she was pushed and dragged along. She should be planning what to do next, but she hurt too much to think clearly, and there was fear, too — fear that froze her heart. Fear of these men, and of the implied threat that she would be enslaved.

  A man was sitting in a chair near the far end of the hallway. That seemed odd. The two men dragged Marie up to him, and he stood. He was white, with dark hair in long sideburns down to his jaws. He was in his shirtsleeves and vest, his jacket hung over the back of the chair. He wore a gun in a holster at his hip. He looked at Marie with a slow grin.

  “She’s to go in with him,” said the man holding Marie’s left arm.

  The guard raised an eyebrow, then took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Marie’s captors pushed her in. The door slammed shut.

  No light in this room. Marie stood blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She heard someone else breathing, and the receding footsteps of the two men who had brought her here, but no more. She smelled beeswax and lamp oil.

  Her middle hurt, as did her feet. Slowly, listening, she crouched down and then sat on the floor. She drew up her knees, rested her head on them, and tried to think.

  Carpet beneath her, a thick, Turkey carpet by the feel of it. A room for someone important, then. It gave her the tiniest hope. She had been put here instead of being sent straight to the slave quarters. Why?

  Perhaps Mr. White was being cautious. He would try to discover whether she was important — whether Mary or anyone else would pay a ransom for her — before consigning her to slavery. It meant she had a little time, a day, perhaps.

  She vowed to herself she would not be here by the end of that day.

  So, she had merely to escape this room, find Immanuel and take him to the Calypso, there to restore his soul to his flesh. Then get the two of them back to the cemetery where they could board Mary’s airship. All without being noticed.

  She raised her head. She could see better now. A faint light came through a window curtained in some light-coloured fabric. Carefully she rolled onto her knees and stood, intending to open the curtain, but she started at the sight of a man seated on a sofa against a wall.

  He did not move. His hair was fair, and she thought his skin was pale. He was dressed like a gentleman.

  Marie cautiously stepped toward the window, watching him all the while. He gave no sign of being aware of her. She crossed the room and drew aside the curtain.

&n
bsp; Moonlight flooded in, pouring across the carpet and wakening its patterns. Marie looked again at the man on the sofa and gasped.

  “Immanuel!”

  She hurried to him, kneeling on the floor beside his feet. He made no move. His eyes stared ahead, unseeing.

  He was a zombi.

  Of course. His soul was in the Calypso. Marie rose to her knees, peering at him more closely to confirm his state. She had seen this before, oh yes. The empty eyes, the slack muscles.

  She placed her hands on his knees. He did not react. She whispered to him.

  “I will restore you.”

  It was as much a promise to herself, and to Mary, as to him. She stood again and went to the window, gazing out at the moon.

  She could restore a soul to its rightful body, oh yes. She had done it before. She needed things, though. A cloth and candle to make a shrine, herbs to burn as sacrifice, and her snake, Zombi, to aid her in her work.

  She had none of these things, save for the herbs that were in the gris-gris she had brought, and the cloth she wore upon her head.

  It was a beginning.

  A shape drifted out in the sky, a cloud that was too small, too swift, too solid. Marie’s heart thumped as she watched the airship turn in a slow arc, curving around the building she was in. Had they seen her taken there?

  Swiftly she unwound her headdress, then took hold of it by one end and cast the rest out of the window. The silk fluttered down against the building, hanging nearly to the window of the floor below. She waved it, flapping it up and down, hoping it would be seen. The cloth was dark, alas. She peered up at the ship until it moved out of her sight, blocked by the building.

  Oya, give me strength.

  Somewhere in the room was a lamp. She had smelled it earlier. She pulled the cloth inside and draped it around her shoulders, then began to search.

  The room was both an office and a meeting room, it seemed. In one corner near the window stood a desk, and on it sat a tall hurricane lamp, its glass chimney pearl-white in the moonlight, fat and round. Marie searched the desk drawer and found a box of lucifers. She smiled as her fingers closed around it.

  She picked up the lamp — heavy — and set it down at the corner of the desk nearest the window, then draped her headcloth halfway out of the window. She put the lamp atop it on the sill, removed the chimney, and struck a light.

  Golden fire, a comfort, a hope. She lit the lamp and put the chimney over the flame so that it began to glow, a soft globe of light, a warmer echo of the moon.

  Whispering prayers to Oya, and to Yemaya, lady of the moon, she took the gris-gris from her pocket and untied it, scattering the herbs over the cloth to either side of the lamp, and crumbling a few of the leaves — all she dared — over the chimney. The smell of sage arose.

  The little piece of cloth that had bound the herbs she carried to where Immanuel’s body sat. She rubbed it in his palms, on his wrists, on his forehead and at his throat, then tucked it inside his shirt over his heart.

  She stood before the altar she had made and drew a deep breath to still herself. She missed her snake, but she had another thing to help her focus. Sliding her hand into her pocket, she brought out the little music box.

  Immanuel’s energy clung to it like a perfume. She closed her eyes and filled her senses with it, catching echoes of his past emotion, ripples that crossed the illusory barrier of time.

  She dared to open the lid, just for a moment, just to hear the first note. A tiny grinding noise preceded it as the gears began to work. One note, and she shut the lid again, letting the music play on in her mind.

  Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot —

  A foolish song, a nursery song. She swayed with the rhythm of it.

  “Oya, let this music guide Immanuel home to his body,” she whispered, holding the box aloft in both hands. “Let that which is crossed become straight.”

  She began to dance, knees bent, toes curling into the deep nap of the carpet. Slowly she undulated, snakelike. The movement reawakened the pain in her middle. Muscles bruised and aching. She ignored it and danced on.

  She could not stamp for fear of attracting the guard’s notice, but she touched her heels to the carpet and thought of stamping on the earth. She twined her arms and arched her back, then curved forward and in, then back again. All the while dancing, all the while praying.

  The song ran through her mind and she thought of the calliope, of Immanuel’s soul crying out through the pipes to be heard, to be recognised. In her trance, she thought she could feel the power of the steam that vibrated those pipes. Power that Immanuel controlled.

  Yes!

  The thought was not hers.

  Immanuel?

  She held herself open, still dancing. Her eyes, when she looked through her lashes, saw Immanuel’s body sitting on the sofa. Her heart felt Immanuel’s presence on the boat, and knew that he was aware of his power. Also, he was angry. Marie shivered.

  “Come home,” she whispered. “Come home to your true body. Leave that shell, it is no use to you.”

  Anger boiled up — his anger, not hers. It rose and grew, frightening her. A flush of heat passed through her, coming in through the soles of her feet and flooding all her body. With a small, wordless cry she opened her mouth, turning her face to the sky.

  An explosion shook the building.

  Caught up in the music, Marie knew she could not stop. She was Immanuel’s guide to his body, she must continue dancing until he was safely home.

  Glimpses of fire crossed her vision, dizzying her. She closed her eyes, which helped but also made the visions clearer. Shouting. Clouds of steam boiling into the night sky. Groaning — not of men, but of heavy timbers. A swaying that did not come from her dance, though it matched it, oddly.

  Footsteps, much nearer — and voices. Marie danced on.

  Yemaya, bring him home to his flesh. Bring him home. This way, Immanuel. Follow the moonlight.

  With the thought, she opened her eyes. She was near the window, gazing upon two moons: the small, full moon of the lamp, and above, the pale moon in the sky. For a moment she saw that same moon from a different angle, obscured by clouds of steam. Then she was flying.

  Flying, arrow-swift, arrow-straight. Fly to the smaller moon. Her head filled with a tension she thought would kill her. The last thing she saw was herself, looking up at her.

  Hands clasping her shoulders. Gentle hands, this time. Lifting her carefully.

  Her head was spinning. She did not want to open her eyes.

  “Wake up. Wake up, please!”

  A man’s voice, whispering. One she had never heard, but knew. She looked up into Immanuel’s eyes, filled with the light of his soul. He frowned in concern.

  Marie’s heart swelled with joy. She smiled.

  “Can you sit up?” he said. “They are all distracted by the fire — this is our best chance of escape.”

  With his help, Marie rose to sitting. On the carpet again, soft thick carpet. Her head swam, but it was settling. She found she was still clutching the music box. She pressed it into Immanuel’s hand.

  He looked down at it, then at Marie. “How — but later. Hurry. Can you stand?”

  With his help, Marie got to her feet. Dizzy, but she nodded to Immanuel. He tiptoed to the door and tried it. Locked.

  Marie waved him aside leaned her head against the door. So tired. She needed strength, so she summoned hatred. Easy to do when she thought about the guard outside, and the way he had looked at her.

  “Massa, let me out,” she drawled.

  “Quiet, you.”

  “Let me out, I be sweet to you.”

  She heard the scrape of the chair. Glancing at Immanuel, she gestured to him to return to the sofa. He seemed reluctant, but she gestured more emphatically as she heard the key in the lock, and he obeyed.

  The door swung open. The guard stood grinning in the doorway.

  “Maybe you’ll be sweet to me right here.”

  Marie smil
ed and tilted her head, sidling backward. She slipped one of her bangles from her arm.

  The guard glanced toward the sofa. Heart jumping in fear, Marie took a step toward him.

  “Maybe...”

  She twisted the bangle and it snapped apart. She flung its contents in the guard’s face.

  “Wha —”

  He could say no more, but fell, choking. Marie caught Immanuel’s hand and pulled him toward the open door. Down a back stairway, down and down. Marie became dizzy again with the turnings and the haste.

  At last they reached the ground floor. A door at the back of the hall was locked and bolted. A guard stood at the front door. Immanuel began opening doors along the hallway, and Marie did the same until he abruptly pulled her into a room.

  It was dark, but moonlight spilled in through a window. Immanuel went to it and raised it, then went through, landing with a soft thump. He reached up to catch Marie as she followed him.

  She glanced toward the dock. A huge fire burned there, flames licking up into the night above the roofs of the mill buildings. She heard distant shouting. She looked up, but did not see the airship.

  The graveyard, then. It lay beyond the building to her left, one of the giant mills. She beckoned to Immanuel and started toward the back of it, intending to go behind, but two men came around the building toward her.

  She fled toward the nearest shelter: the mill.

  A door opened beneath her hand. She slipped inside and was overwhelmed by noise.

  Immanuel came after her and shut the door, then caught her hand.

  “Keep moving!”

  She barely heard his shout. She stared at the bewildering array of machines — looms, some of them — and cogs and wheels and things she did not comprehend, all moving. The hiss of steam lay behind all the mechanical noise. A river of brocade, black with silver flowers, flowed from the looms. It ran over rollers, beneath misters, through tunnels, and finally to vast spindles that collected the finished cloth.

  Immanuel dragged her away. They ran down a narrow space between the machines and the wall, passing so close to a massive, thumping loom that Marie gave a small cry of alarm. Just as they turned a corner she heard shouting.