by Mike Ashley
“Or, for that matter,” the latter went on, in a generous tone of voice, “take Zosimus the Alchemist, if you like. Come in!” The hall-porter came in, bowed with ancient respectfulness (the hall-porter was rather ancient, himself), laid down a salver with a card on it, and withdrew. “Ah-hah. Business is picking up. Fifteen down, three over . . .”
Eszterhazy had not stayed beyond the half-hour, but made a semi-appointment for a later date. The card of the further business awaiting Milord Sir Smiht was facing directly toward both of them, and he could hardly have avoided reading it.
And it read: Brothers Swartbloi, Number 3, Court of the Golden Hart. Snuff-Tobacco.
Third Assistant Supervisory Officer Lupescus, of the Aliens Office, was feeling rather mixed, emotionally. On the one hand, he still had the happiness of having (recently) reached the level of a third assistant supervisory official; it was not every day, or even every year that a member of the Romanou-speaking minority attained such high rank in the Imperial Capital. On the other hand, a certain amount of field work was now required of him, and he had never done field work before. This present task, for instance, this call upon the Second Councilor at the British Legation, was merely routine. “Merely routine, my dear Lupescus,” his superior in the office, Second ASO on Glouki had said. Easily enough said, but, routine or not routine, one had to have something to show for this visit. And it did not look as though one were going to get it.
“Smith, Smith,” the Second Councilor was saying, testily. “I tell you that I must have more information. What Smith?”
All that Lupescus could do was to repeat, “Milord Sir Smiht.”
“‘Milord, Milord,’ there is no such rank or title. Sir, why, that is merely as one would say Herra, or Monsieur. And as for Smith – by the way, you’ve got it spelled wrongly there, you know, it is S-M-I-T-H – well, you can’t expect me to know anything about anyone just named Smith, why, that’s like asking me about someone named Jones, in Cardiff, or Macdonald, in Glasgow . . . Mmm, no, you wouldn’t know about those . . . Ah, well, it’s, oh, it’s like asking me about someone named Novotny in Prague! D’you see?”
Lupescus brightened just a trifle. This was something. Very dutifully and carefully, he wrote in his notebook, Subject Milord Smiht said to be associated with Novotny in Prague . . .
With his best official bow, he withdrew. Withdrawn, he allowed himself a sigh. Now he would have to go and check out Novotny with the people at the Austro-Hungarian Legation. He hoped that this would be more productive than this other enquiry had been. One would have thought that people named Smiht grew on trees in England.
Eszterhazy’s growing association with the white-haired Englishman took, if not a leap, then a sort of lurch, forward one evening about a month after his first visit. He had sent up his card with the hall-porter, who had returned with word that he was to go up directly. He found Smith with a woman in black, a nondescript woman of the type who hold up churches all around the world.
“Ah, come in, my dear sir. Look here. This good woman doesn’t speak either French or German, and my command of Gothic is not . . . well, ask her what she wants, do, please.”
Frow Widow Apterhots wished to be placed in communication with her late husband. “That is to say,” she said, anxious that there be no confusion nor mistake, “that is to say, he is dead, you know. His name is Emyil.”
Smiht shook his head tolerantly at this. “Death does not exist,” he said, “nor does life exist, save as states of flux to one side or other of the sidereal line, or astral plane, as some call it. From this point of view it may seem that anyone who is not alive must be dead, but that is not so. The absent one, the one absent from here, may now be fluctuating in the area called ‘death,’ or he or she may be proceeding in a calm vibration along the level of the sidereal line or so-called astral plane. We mourn because the ‘dead’ are not ‘alive.’ But in the world which we call ‘death’ the so-called ‘dead’ may be mourning a departure into what we call ‘life.’”
From Widow Apterhots sighed. “Emyil was always so healthy, so strong,” she said. “I still can’t understand it. He always did say that there wasn’t no Hell, just Heaven and Purgatory, and I used to say, ‘Oh, Emyil, people will think that you’re a Freemason or something.’ Well, our priest, Father Ugerow, he just won’t listen when I talk like this, he says, ‘If you won’t say your prayers, at least perform some work of corporal mercy, and take your mind off such things.’ But what I say—” She leaned forward, her simple sallow face very serious and confiding, “I say that all I want to know is: Is he happy there? That’s all.”
Pemberton Smith said that he could guarantee nothing, but in any event he would have to have at least one object permeated with the odyllic force of the so-called deceased. The Frow Widow nodded and delved into her reticule. “That’s what I was told, so I come prepared. I always made him wear this, let them say what they like, he always did. But I wouldn’t let them bury him with it because I wanted it for a keepsake. Here you are, Professor.” She held out a small silver crucifix.
Smith took the article with the utmost calm and walked over and set it down upon a heavy piece of furniture in the dimness of the back of the room. There were quite a number of things already on the table. Smith beckoned, and the others came toward him, Frow Widow Apterhots because she was sure that she was meant to, and Eszterhazy because he was sure he wanted to. “These,” said Smith, “are the equipment for the odyllic forces. Pray take a seat, my good woman.” He struck a match and lit a small gas jet; it was not provided with a mantle, and it either lacked a regulatory tap or something was wrong with the one it did have – or perhaps Smith merely liked to see the gas flame shooting up to its fullest extent; at least two feet long the flame was, wavering wildly and a reddish gold in color.
Certainly, he was not trying to conceal anything.
But these were interesting, certainly whatever else they were, and Eszterhazy took advantage of the English wizard’s at the moment administering to himself two strong doses of Rappee – one in each nostril – to scrutinize the equipment for the odyllic forces. What he saw was a series of bell jars . . . that is, at least some of them were bell jars . . . some of the others resembled, rather, Leyden jars . . . and what was all that, under the bell jars? In one there seemed to be a vast quantity of metal filings; in another, quicksilver; in the most of them, organic matter, vegetive in origin. Every jar, bell or Leyden, appeared to be connected to every other jar by a system of glass tubing: and all the tubes seemed fitted up to a sort of master-tube, which coiled around and down and finally upward, culminating in what appeared to be an enormous gramophone horn.
“Pray, touch nothing,” warned Milord Sir Smiht. “The equipment is exceedingly fragile.” He took up a small, light table, the surface of which consisted of some open lattice-work material – Eszterhazy was not sure what – and, moving it easily, set it up over the born. On it he placed the crucifix. “Now, my dear sir, if you will be kind enough to ask this good lady, first, to take these in her hands . . .? And, to concentrate, if she will, entirely upon the memory of her husband, now on another plane of existence.” The Widow Apterhots, sitting down, took hold of the these – in this case, a pair of metal grips of the sort which are connected, often, to magnetic batteries, but in this case were not – they seemed connected in some intricate way with the glass tubings. She closed her eyes. “And,” the wizard continued, “please to cooperate in sending on my request. Which, after all, is her request, translated into my own methodology.”
He began an intricate series of turnings of taps, of twistings of connections at joints and at junctions, of connectings; at length he was finished. “Emyil Apterhots. Emyil Apterhots. Emyil Apterhots. If you are happy, wherever you are, kindly signify by moving the crucifix which you wore when on this plane of existence. Now!”
The entire massive piece of furniture upon which the equipment for the odyllic force (or forces) was placed began to move forward.
“No, no, you Gothic oaf!” shouted the milord, his face crimson with fury and concern. “Not the sideboard! The crucifix! Just the cru-ci-fix—” He set himself against the sideboard and pressed it back. In vain. In vain. In vain. In a moment, Eszterhazy, concerned lest the glass tubings should snap, reached forward to adjust them, so that the intricate workings should not be shattered and sundered – the wizard, panting and straining against the laboratory furniture as the heavy mass continued to slide forward . . . forward . . . forward . . .
—and suddenly slid rapidly backward, Milord Sir Smiht stumbling and clutching at empty air, Eszterhazy darting forward, and the two of them executing a sort of slow, insane schottische, arm in arm, before coming to a slow halt—
And then, oh so grumpy, wiping his brow with a red bandana handkerchief, of the sort in which navvies wrap their pork pies, hear Milord Sir Smiht say, “I must regard this session as questionable in its results. And I must say that I am not used to such contumacy from the habitants of the sidereal line!”
Frow Widow Apterhots, however, clearly did not regard the results as in any way questionable. Her sallow, silly face now quite blissful, she stepped forward and retrieved the crucifix. “Emyil,” she said, “was always so strong . . . !”
And on that note she departed.
Herr Manfred Mauswarmer at the Austro-Hungarian Legation was quite interested. “‘Novotny in Prague,’ eh? Hmmm, that seems to ring a bell.” Third ASO Lupescus sat up straighter. A faint tingle of excitement went through his scalp. “Yes, yes,” said Herr Mauswarmer, “we have of a certainty heard the name. One of those Czech names,” he said, almost indulgently. “One never knows what they may be up to.” Very carefully he made a neat little note and looked up brightly. “We shall of course first have to communicate with Vienna—”
“Oh, of course!”
“And they will, of course, communicate with Prague.”
Herr Manfred Mauswarmer’s large, pale, bloodshot blue eyes blinked once or twice. “A Czech name,” he noted. “An English name. Uses the code cypher Wizard. Communicates in French.” He briefly applied one thick forefinger to the side of his nose. He winked. Lupescus winked back. They understood each other. The hare had had a headstart. But the hounds had caught the scent.
One of the bell jars was empty – had, in fact, always been empty, although Eszterhazy had merely noted this without considering as to why it might be so. He did not ask about it as he listened, now, to the Englishman’s talk. Milord Sir Smiht, his cap on his head, his cloak sometimes giving a dramatic flap as he turned in his pacings of the large old room, said, “The contents of the vessels in large part represent the vegetable and mineral kingdom – I don’t know if you have noticed that.”
“I have.”
“The animal kingdom, now . . . well, each man and woman is a microcosm, representing the macrocosm, the universe, in miniature. That is to say, we contain in our own bodies enough of the animal and mineral to emanate at all times, though we are not aware of it, a certain amount of odyllic force—”
“Or forces.”
“Or forces. Point well made. However. Now, although the average human body does include, usually, some amounts of the vegetable kingdom – so much potato, cabbage, sprouts, let us say – undergoing the process of digestive action,” flap went his cloak, “as well as the ever-present bacteria, also vegetative, still. The chemical constituencies in our body, now, I forget just what they amount to. Four-and-six, more or less, in real money. Or is it two-and-six? One forgets. Still. Primarily, the human organism is an animal organism.” Flap.
Eszterhazy, nodding, made a steeple of his hands. “And therefore (Pemberton Smith will correct me if I am wrong), when the human subject takes hold of that pair of metallic grips, the three kingdoms, animal, vegetable, and mineral, come together in a sort of unity—”
“A sort of Triune Monarchy in parvo, as it were, yes, correct! I see that I was not wrong in assuming that yours was a mind capable of grasping these matters,” flap, “and then it is all a matter of adjustment: One turns up the vegetative emanations, one turns in the mineral emanations . . . and then, then, my dear sir, one hopes for the best. For one has not as yet been able to adjust the individual human beings. They are what they are. One can turn a tap, one can open a valve or lose a valve, plug in a connecting tube or unplug a connecting tube. But one has to take a human body just as one finds it . . . Pity, in a way . . . Hollo, hollo!”
Something was happening in the empty bell jar: mists and fumes, pale blue lights, red sparks and white sparks.
Milord Sir Smiht, dashing hither and thither and regulating his devices, stopped, suddenly, looked imploringly at Eszterhazy, gestured, and said, “Would you, my dear fellow? Awf’ly grateful—”
Eszterhazy sat in the chair, took the metal grips in his hands, and tried to emulate those curious animals, the mules, which, for all that they are void of hope of posterity, can still manage to look in two directions at once.
Direction Number One: Pemberton Smith, as he coupled and uncoupled, attached and disattached, turned, tightened, loosened, adjusting the ebb and flow of the odyllic forces. Animal, vegetable, and mineral.
Direction Number Two: The once-empty bell jar, wherein now swarmed . . . wherein now swarmed what? A hive of microscopic bees, perhaps.
A faint tingle passed through the palms of Eszterhazy’s hands and up his hands and arms. The tingle grew stronger. It was not really at all like feeling an electrical current, though. A perspiration broke forth upon his forehead. He felt very slightly giddy, and the wizard anglais almost at once perceived this. “Too strong for you, is it? Sorry about that!” He made adjustments. The giddiness was at once reduced, almost at once passed away.
And the something in the bell jar slowly took form and shape.
It was a simulacrum, perhaps. Or perhaps the word was homunculus. The bell jar was the size of a child. And the man within it was the size of a rather small child. Otherwise it was entirely mature. And “it” was really not the correct pronoun, for the homunculus (or whatever it was) was certainly a man, however small: a man wearing a frock coat and everything which went with frock coats, and a full beard. He even had an order of some sort, a ribbon which crossed his bosom, and a medal or medallion. Eszterhazy thought, but could not be sure, that it rather resembled the silver medallion which Milord Sir Smiht wore in his hat.
“Pemberton Smith, who is that?”
“Who, that? Or. Oh, that’s Gomes—” He pronounced it to rhyme with roams. “He’s the Wizard of Brazil. You’ve heard of Gomes, to be sure.” And he then proceeded to move his arms, hands, and fingers with extreme rapidity, pausing only to say, “We communicate through the international sign language, you see. He has no English and I have no Portagee. Poor old Gomes, things have been ever so slack for him since poor old Dom Peedro got the sack. Ah well. Inevitable, I suppose. Emperors and the Americas just don’t seem to go together. Purely an Old World phenomena, don’t you know.” And once again his fingers and hands and arms began their curious, rapid, and impressive movement. “Yes, yes,” he muttered to himself. “I see, I see. No. Really. You don’t say. Ah, too bad, too bad!”
He turned to Eszterhazy. Within the jar, the tiny digits and limbs of the Wizard of Brazil had fallen, as it were, silent. The homunculus shrugged, sadly. “What do you make of all that?” asked the Wizard of England (across the waters).
“What? Is it not clear? The ants are eating his coffee trees, and he wishes you to send him some paris green, as the local supply has been exhausted.”
“My dear chap, I can’t send him any paris green!”
“Assure him that I shall take care of it myself. Tomorrow.”
“I say, that is ever so good of you! Yes, yes, ah, pray excuse me now whilst I relay the good news.”
In far-off Petropolis, the summer capital of Brazil, the wizard of that mighty nation, much reduced in size (wizard, not nation) by transatlantic transmission, crossed his arms upon his bosom and
bowed his gratitude in the general direction of the distant though friendly nation of Scythia-Pan-nonia-Transbalkania. All men of science, after all, constitute one great international confraternity.
The saint’s-day gift of snuff was so well received by Frow Widow Orgats, Eszterhazy’s cook (who had taken his advice to stock up on coffee), that he thought he would lay in a further supply as a sweetener against the possibility of one of those occasions – infrequent, but none the less to be feared – when the Frow Cook suffered severe attacks of the vapors and either burned the soup or declared (with shrieks and shouts audible on the second floor) her intense inability to face anything in the shape of a stove at all. So, on the next convenient occasion, he once more made his way to the Court of the Golden Hart.
“Four ounces of the Imperial.”
He peered at the Swartbloi brother, who was peering at the scales. “You are not Kummelman,” he said. Almost. But not.
“No sir, I am Ignats,” said the brother. “Kummelman is at the moment—”
“In the mill, salting the Turkey. I know.”
Ignats Swartbloi looked at him with some surprise and some reproof. “Oh, no, sir. Kummelman always grinds the Rappee, and I always salt the Turkey. On the other tasks we either work together or take turns. But never in regard to the grinding of the Rappee or the salting of the Turkey. I had been about to say, sir, that Kummelman is at his home, by reason of his wife’s indisposition, she being presently in a very delicate condition.”
And he handed over the neatly wrapped packet of pleated paper bearing the well-known illustrated label – this one, old Frow Imglotch had tinted so as to give the snufftaker a gray nose and a green periwig, neither of which in any way diminished the man’s joy at having his left nostril packed solid with Brothers Swartbloi Snuff-Tobacco (though whether Rappee, Imperial, Minorka, Habana, or Turkey, has never been made plain, and perhaps never will be).
“Indeed, indeed. Pray accept my heartiest felicitations.”
