by Paul Butler
Praise for Paul Butler
St. John’s: City of Fire
“It’s no easy task to make a long ago emergency interesting to a modern reader, but Butler brings his novelist’s skill to the newspaper reports, eyewitness accounts, and archival information, creating vivid images of the city and her inhabitants.”
Atlantic Books Today
Nageira
“Butler’s prose is smooth and clean; the story moves forward vigorously, with patches of poetry.”
The Globe and Mail
“[A] . . . brilliant exploration of one of Newfoundland’s central mythological figures set within highly-crafted, well-written parallel stories that hinge on twists of fate and an intricate plot structure.”
Atlantic Books Today
Easton’s Gold
“Butler is an invigorating writer, keeping the reader in suspense, but moving the story along at an exhilarating pace . . . And finally, Butler is a fine stylist, one who knows how to provide apt images that vivify thought and action . . .”
Canadian Book Review Annual
“. . . Butler builds solid suspense and healthy narrative momentum through a focus on fundamentals: efficient storytelling, keen attention to characterization and fealty to the mysteries of the past and their influence on the present . . . Easton’s Gold is . . . a compelling novel which often surprises and satisfies.”
The Globe and Mail
Easton
“[Easton] is exceptionally well-written . . . . Throughout the novel, the atmosphere of threatening danger that permeates the story will hold the reader spellbound until the end.”
The Telegram
Stoker’s Shadow
“Paul Butler understands very well what underlies this gothic tale . . . Butler’s prose style is often lush – he describes post-Victorian London quite eloquently . . .”
The Globe and Mail
“Though the vampires in Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula cast no shadows, the author and the book certainly do. In Stoker’s Shadow, Paul Butler explores this phenomenon in a unique blending of biography and dreamscape.”
Dr. Elizabeth Miller, author of Dracula: Sense and Nonsense and A Dracula Handbook
Rogues and Heroes
“. . . a very well-written and interesting collection of stories . . .”
The Telegram
Pennywell Books
St. John’s
2008
Copyright
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Butler, Paul, 1964--
Cataloguing information is available from the National Archives of Canada.
Also issued in print format.
ISBN 978-1-897317-28-0 (print) 978-1-77117-214-1 (epub) 978-1-771172-15-8 (kindle)
—————
© 2008 by Paul Butler
All rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.
Printed in Canada
Cover Design: Adam Freake
Flanker Press Ltd.
PO Box 2522, Station C
St. John’s, NL
Canada
Telephone: (709) 739-4477 Fax: (709) 739-4420 Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420
www.flankerpress.com
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities; the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada; the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation.
“Heav’n but the vision of fulfill’d Desire
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on Fire,”
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
July 29, l892, the Royal Gazette
A most fiendish act was perpetrated last night by some villain or villains at present unknown, who went to the stable of Mr. Timothy Brine, head of Long’s Hill, and cut the tongues out of his two fine horses. What could have prompted this diabolical act we know not, but it is certainly the duty of every right-thinking citizen to assist the authorities in bringing the miscreant to justice, and to employ every legitimate means to stamp out such atrocities, which are a disgrace to any civilized community. Apart from this aspect of the matter, the loss is a very serious one to the man, Brine.
_________
A discharged man-servant of Mr. T. Brine, named Fitzpatrick, was arrested this morning on suspicion of having cut out the horses’ tongues.
Prologue
AFTER
July 28, 1892
Tommy
The music-box ditty is reawakened by a distant echo of hooves somewhere down on Water Street. The tune jingles in my ears like coxcomb bells – All things bright and beautiful. All creatures great and small – keeping pace with clop-clop rhythm. Both sounds are part of the marionette dance sweeping through the night.
Tourists, sightseers, and newspapermen are scanning the wreckage of the city below – a favoured pastime these last three weeks – giving lofty expression, no doubt, to a horror they don’t feel. Those who suffer turn their back upon ruin; they don’t stare and shake their heads in a demonstration of grief.
Each little flower that opens. Each tiny bird that sings . . . The sound is too insistent, too perfectly metred to be joyful; it’s a clockwork machine disguised as a velvet-winged angel.
Other than the faraway cabs and the phantom melody, the city is silent. Most nights since the inferno have been like this. The sky is vast and blue with strings of clouds and an ominous hush – a scene within crystal. But always, no matter how clear the air, the bitter stench of ash is in the atmosphere – an unwholesome, lung-clogging cocktail of burned wood and vaporized stone.
Shadows duck in and out of the broken ribs of chimneys, would-be thieves or perhaps the ghosts of thieves, spirits who cannot cease the petty plunder they undertook in life. Scorched lime tingles in my nostrils as I tramp up the hill. It clings to the back of my throat too, and I spit into the gravel near my feet. There’s no one to admonish me here. There are no eyes on me at all, and part of me regrets this. At least during the day when gentlemen tut and the ladies whisper, I feel a snarl rising up inside me, a belief there is something left for me to rage against. I haven’t spat at one of them yet, or even held their stare for longer than a moment. But they see my insolence clearly enough when I fail to slacken my pace or touch my cap. That will do for now.
I’ve picked up a handy amount of work since it all happened, carting and hauling here and there. It seems that many people don’t know me by sight, and I’m often working well above my usual wages. Why I should bother with money and work, or with hanging around at all anymore, I’m not exactly sure. I thought want would cease with the death of desire. But a body, I have found, is a despicable, wretched thing. Its heart continues to beat, its veins to pump, its gut to hunger and its throat to thirst long after higher yearnings have burned away. I’ve become a thrall to these base, monotonous instincts. The withered remains of my spirit are trapped within a hulking form that tramps without reason through the ruined city.
“What earthly use are you, Fitzpatrick?” Father Ryan asked me before my world spun out of control. The old man’s tired and bloodshot
eyes held such belief, such conviction, that they almost made me believe. If he could so easily see through my Sunday clothes, through my brushed and flattened hair, my soft manners, my self-imposed learning regimen – a book a week by lamplight or candle – to the dark and clammy spaces of my soul, then how could I be so sure he was not serving some all-knowing, all-seeing spirit as he claimed? With his piercing eye and his question, the old priest had given me a glimpse into a paradise to which I was excluded . . . The rich man in his castle. The poor man at his gate. He made them high or lowly. And ordered his estate . . .
My tongue craves liquor as a lizard’s skin must crave the sun. I press my fingers onto the knife blade in my pocket to remind me. Drink yourself into oblivion, the metal edge says; drink until you will never wake, but only after you keep your promise to yourself.
Beyond the broken cross – the upright and beam of the former stable – I spy the rippling haunches of O’Brien’s favourite mare. The beast is happy in the moonlight, gently frolicking in the circle her rope allows . . . All things bright and beautiful . . .
O’Brien is away again. Those neighbours whose homes still stand must be asleep. Beyond the ruins, the houses’ eyes are blank. I pace softly over the turf and feel the arches of my feet tremble at the touch of half-burned sod. The mare dips her head and looks over her shoulder. Her companion whinnies happily. I reach toward the rope, my hand gliding like some white bird, disconnected from myself, until I feel the rough hemp in my palm. A huge eye stares at me, curious and uncomprehending . . . “There, girl, there,” my soft voice entreats. My free hand comes down on her warm, hard chest. I feel the pulse of a giant vein and the horse chugs like a happy steam engine. She knows me. Tenderness rises with the terror and rage. My head comes to rest against a rippling neck muscle . . . He gave us eyes to see them. And lips that we might tell . . .
“Shush,” I say out loud to the beast as one hand fondles the rope and the other draws out the knife, “shush, my beauty.” Her warm coat has become damp against my cheek and I realize this must be my tears . . . How great is God Almighty Who has made this all so well . . .
One
BEFORE
July 1, 1892
Kathleen
I caught the proprietor’s nod as I lay my fingers on the little metal box painted with plump-breasted robins and shining, red berries. I was curious but there were others shuffling and whispering in the shop and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. The proprietor with his half-moon spectacles and his nervous smile seemed like a mild man, and it was to please him, rather than to hear the tune, that I lifted the lid.
The melody was lovely, like the tinkle of glass bells, and I felt moisture coming to my eyes as I recognized it. A red admiral butterfly turned on a little dais, as the tune to All Things Bright and Beautiful played itself out to the mechanical chimes. Suddenly I was aware of a presence close by that was very much at odds with all this – something noxious and feral – and a smell of stale liquor and tobacco.
I turned to see a dark-eyed man with a sallow complexion and a mangy, unkempt beard. He winked at me. “Ah, a lovely tune!” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and wistful. His manner, though aiming at gentleness, erred badly. He was so close to me I could feel the warmth of his breath. I shut the box and took a step sideways from the display table. “I love music too, you see, miss,” he said by way of explanation. He stepped toward the display, leaned over and opened the box. His fingernails were deeply ingrained with dirt.
I glanced at the shopkeeper who had set about polishing a piece of porcelain. He peered over his glasses at rapid intervals, his eyes no longer mild, but cold and alert. “It’s a hymn to the Lord’s Creation,” the ragged man said, in the same sad voice. There were faint crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes, and despite the uneasy odours, the dishevelled, unkempt appearance and the hunched shoulders, there was something oddly sensitive in his manner too – a hint of shyness in the way he kept my eye for a second then looked away.
“I haven’t seen you here before, miss,” he said quietly. “You must be a stranger to St. John’s.”
For a moment I was caught. I could feel the attention of the shopkeeper, whose good opinion I had somehow managed to earn, and I could also sense the interest of some of the other customers. I was indeed new enough to St. John’s to wonder whose eyes might be upon me and what reports might find their way back to Mrs. Stevens, my employer. This man was in no sense of the word respectable and I knew I should break off any appearance of intimacy without delay, but there was something childlike about him. No need to use an anvil on a butterfly.
“Not entirely a stranger,” I said, feeling my cheek burn. I touched the wheel rim of a Singer sewing machine then made a broad circle around the shop, nodding at the proprietor – who had in any case become deeply engaged in a conversation with a lady in black. The bell rang as I opened the door and passed into the bright, cool air with its ever-present stench of drying fish. The contrast with the waxy dimness of the shop’s interior was startling, and for a moment my feet were unsteady. The bell rang again as I took a step toward the curb. I was annoyed with myself for leaving. I still did not have anything for my young sister, Mary, who had yet to forgive me for leaving her in London with our parents. My absence, I knew, would make their single room in the boarding house more crowded, not less; silence had a way of multiplying shadows. And because it was me who was leaving, and not her, St. John’s and the dominion of Newfoundland had sounded to Mary like the most exhilarating of escapes. There had been no point in trying to persuade her otherwise. I had found consolation in the idea that a package sent today would reach her within three weeks. I had imagined her childish fury dissolving into joy.
I wandered west on Water Street gazing at the wheel of a passing carriage. Mary was always fascinated by the way the spokes appeared to turn slowly backward in a blur even though the wheel actually turned forward. She never tired of spinning tops, kaleidoscopes, magic, or illusion of any kind. The carriage moved away and I looked to my left and scanned the shop windows. Some of the merchants here sold almost everything, and some of the displays, like those of London, were marvels of geometry and balance. Cans of corned beef, cans of fish, jars of molasses stood like acrobats in a music hall. There were toys, too, furniture, clothes, bottles of rum, tins of tobacco – not that the last of these items would be of any use to Mary. I tried to focus my mind on the task, but the aura of liquor and stale cigarettes still clung to me, tinting my imagination with the murky hues of the stranger. Then suddenly, as I hesitated before a display of dolls, it seemed stronger than mere fancy. I turned swiftly and saw an expectant grin.
“Young miss,” said the stranger, “I hope you won’t think me presumptuous.”
Fire rose to my cheeks and a flutter of panic beat its wings around my shoulders. Mere hints would never be enough with this man, I realized. I glanced around to see if I could place a constable. There was only one in sight, a young man standing legs astride at the Athenaeum entrance, nodding to a passerby. He was too far off for me to gain his attention easily but close enough to provide comfort. The stranger, meanwhile, was fumbling inside his coat like an incompetent stage magician. When his grimy fingers reappeared, they held the music box with the plump, painted robins, and the shining, red berries. Resting in his large, uncouth hand, the little box seemed even more beautiful and delicate.
For a moment I was unable to speak. By instinct I knew he had not paid for it. My eyes wandered toward the constable, this time not for reassurance – rather in fear – but he was looking in the opposite direction. The grinning stranger was in no immediate danger of capture, and the fact gave me a momentary feeling of relief. This puzzled me. If the policeman were close enough to hail, I told myself, I would surely beckon him. But he wasn’t.
“Take it back,” I whispered urgently, letting my eyes show the anger my voice could not.
The skin around hi
s unruly beard began to redden and his eyes became wild and helpless. “I can’t,” he said with a shake of the head. Caught between proffering his gift and withdrawing it, he hooked his hand and wrist around the box as if it were a discus he were preparing to throw. “They’ll put me in prison.”
“Then, for goodness’ sake,” I whispered sharply, “at least hide it!”
A silly, nervous grin passed over his face. He did as I asked in a slow and fumbling manner. A passing gentleman glanced at us with interest, and I found my neck pulsing with danger.
“That was a mad thing to do,” I spat out the words as harshly as I could. “Leave me now or I’ll call the policeman over there.”
He just stared at me, shoulders slumped, face solemn. After a moment’s hesitation I turned on my heel and walked swiftly away.
Once a safe distance from the spot I turned and scanned the street to make sure he hadn’t followed me again. Everyone on the street, save a couple of urchins playing, was respectable. Empty-handed, distracted to the core, I made my way to Mrs. Stevens’s house. The music box jingle played in my ear, and I even caught myself smiling at the robins with their open beaks and their proud breasts. The memory of the stranger’s grimy fingernails imposed itself upon the pretty illustration, and I felt not anger or even panic, but a heart-swelling poignancy. It was a vision of brutishness and ignorance striving for the unattainable.
I thought of my parents in London, their arguments over money, work and drink, and the love woven deep beneath the bitterness. Their union was a sacred tapestry – stained, threadbare, and torn, yet, in sentimental moments, still valued. I suddenly missed them as people already long dead, and I for the first time realized I might never see them again. By the time I reached Meeting House Hill, a warm tear was rolling down my cheek.
