“Excuses butter no parsnips, Kayll!” he thundered. Then, in a lower tone, “Just be sure you're on time when the ship sails.”
“Sir?” Edward looked from the boss to the guests and back.
“The young man has not been informed?” said the older of the two strangers. His accent was, Edward thought, genteel but certainly not British. American, perhaps, but nothing like that of the captains and officers of merchant ships Edward sometimes had dealings with.
“He is being informed now, Captain,” said Clore, lumbering over to the map where the routes of his various ships were charted. “Come here, Kayll.”
Edward went to stand next to his employer. Clore was a huge man in height and circumference, and proximity made Edward feel even younger and skinnier by contrast. Core jabbed a pudgy finger at the map, indicating the Atlantic seaboard of North America.
“You need to prepare yourself for a long voyage, lad. At least six weeks, probably more.”
“But sir–” began Edward. “I'm not a sailor.”
This is madness, he thought. Why me? Is this punishment? What have I done?
“No,” said Clore, putting a heavy hand on the clerk's shoulder. “You are not. But you are an employee of mine, and as such, I own you, lad, body and soul. This means you will go where you are sent. It so happens that Mister Nichols here asked for you specifically.”
Clore indicated the second stranger. Nichols was a clean-shaven, fair-haired young man looking at Edward with a faint smile.
“But why?” asked Edward.
“I needed someone I can trust,” said Nichols. “A reliable bookkeeper to deal with our various – transactions.”
Nichols' voice was unaccented, yet Edward had the feeling that he, too, was not British.
Giving me the creeps, looking at me like that.
“That's settled then!” boomed Clore, slapping Edward on the shoulder. “You set sail tomorrow. Pack a few essentials and report to Captain Garrett here at eight pm at the North Dock. You leave on the morning tide. But not a word about your destination to anyone, mind you! If they ask, you're going to the West Indies to trade with our colonies there. Cotton and machinery out, sugar and rum back, that sort of thing.”
Edward tried to speak, realized his mouth was hanging open as he stared at his boss.
“We might at least,” said the captain, “inform the young man where he is going.”
“Ah, yes,” Clore said. “You are sailing to the Confederate States of America, where you will assist in the delivery of some – goods.”
Edward's mind reeled, but even in his confusion, he noticed glances pass between the three men.
Something they're not telling me. But what could be worse than this?
“Sir!” he exclaimed. “We're to run the American Navy's blockade?”
“We will indeed, young man!” exclaimed Garrett, punching his right fist into the palm of his left. “We will leave Lincoln's clumsy frigates in our wake. Those Yankees will be choking on the smoke from your splendid British engines!”
Clore roared with laughter, as if Garrett had made a brilliant joke. Nichols gave his thin, inhuman smile.
The rest of the meeting passed, for Edward, in a haze of fear and confusion. Details were discussed, Atlantic charts pored over, winds and currents analyzed. The room filled with a fog of pipe tobacco. Brandy was produced, but Clore offered none to Edward. Finally, the captain, who seemed the most humane of the three, suggested that 'our young friend' go and put his affairs in order. Clore reluctantly agreed.
Edward made his way home like a somnambulist, nodding vaguely when acquaintances greeted him. He caught sight of himself in the window of a draper shop. He looked gaunt, huge-eyed, pale. A wintry figure on an April morning. Then, just for a fleeting instant, someone else stood there. It was the woman he had drawn that morning. Edward gasped, started back, and caromed off a stout woman hurrying past. She gave him a foul look. He apologized, doffing his hat, and when he turned back, the reflection was back to normal.
My God, he realized. That young woman was not wearing a dress! Just what looked like bizarre undergarments! Am I depraved?
Edward thought he heard a laugh being stifled, and looked round. No passerby showed signs of amusement. He tried to dispel all thoughts of the mysterious woman and rushed back to his lodgings, where he explained to his landlady that he would be leaving for a sea voyage. She made clear his room would be rented out as soon as he went.
In his attic, he began to pack a bag with shirts and underclothes, going about the task mechanically.
I'm going to die, he thought. There will be violence and blood and I will die. This is how the curse works itself out upon us.
As Edward packed, he reflected on his short life to date. His mother had died in childbirth and his father had married again shortly after. His stepmother had not cared for Edward. He had once overheard her call him a 'freakish little creature', and while his father had rebuked her, it had had no effect on her attitude.
The thought of that sight made Edward pause to finger the scars on his hands. His father, to his credit, had hired a proper surgeon to remove Edward's extra fingers and toes. But not before the boy had become the focus of mockery and superstition. A friendless childhood had been inevitable.
The Kaylls are cursed. Everyone knows that. It's in the blood. We are not normal.
Shortly after Edward's fifteenth birthday, his father had been found dead, his throat torn out. The coroner had concluded that a wild dog or other beast had somehow entered the man's bedroom and left unobserved. Edward had inherited nothing but debt. At fifteen, he had thought himself lucky to get a job at the Clore shipping company. Now he felt sure that the curse had simply been biding its time.
“Poor kid!” he said without thinking.
Edward paused, puzzled by his own words. The unfamiliar phrase had popped into his head and now he tried to grasp its meaning. A 'kid', he knew, was a baby goat. But somehow, it was clear that, in this context, it meant 'poor child'. It was as if one half of his mind was sympathizing with the other.
“And doing it in very bad English,” he muttered, stuffing a spare nightshirt into his old carpetbag. “I'm going insane, evidently.”
Edward had soon finished packing what little clothing he had, and found himself at a loose end. He could hardly go back to the office, having been dismissed by Jeremiah Clore. Instead, he took out his sketchbook and turned to the drawing he had made that morning.
It is her, I'm sure of it. But why would I see her standing half-naked in a shop window?
He took a pencil and tried to improve on the picture, but soon gave up. Instead, he found himself musing on the weeks ahead, when he would be exposed to the perils of a sea voyage, and a war. He tried to fit himself into the huge conflict taking place in America. To break the Union blockade was, he felt sure, wrong. It was intended to strangle the slave-owning South, who most British people loathed. Clore wanted to profit from the war and would instinctively sell to either side. Edward knew Clore had shipped arms and other equipment to the North. Yet, he had no doubt from what his boss had said that Clore's sympathies lay with the plantation owners.
“What has any of this to do with me?” he said plaintively. “I just want to live a quiet life. Be happy. Perhaps even get married, start a family …”
Edward stopped, and thought of Molly Dearden, who he had flirted with in a clumsy way for months.
“I'll propose,” he said, standing up. “I'll ask Molly’s father for her hand. I may not get another chance.”
With a new sense of resolve, he put the sketch-book back in his desk, slicked down his hair, and set off for the Deardens.
***
“Now that was weird,” said Erin, lifting her fingertips from the drawing. “Very weird indeed.”
“As opposed to the tediously normal psychic time-travel you normally go in for?” asked Louise, putting the sketch-book to one side. “You okay?”
Erin nodded.
> “My ancestor, young Edward Kayll, just had the hots for me. That must be illegal in some way, right? I mean, he has to be my great-great-great-great grandfather? Or something like that?”
“It's not so much illegal as impractical, I'd have thought,” laughed Louise. “So he definitely senses your presence?”
“Yep, and I'm worried about it,” admitted Erin. “It's one thing to be a spectator, but being a participant? I mean, can I change the past? And wouldn't that change the present, which is Edward's future? It's fun when it's Michael J. Fox doing it, but pretty chilling when it's me.”
Louise thought for a moment, then said, “Well, see if you can change things in a trivial way. Something that can't alter the broad sweep of history but means something to us, here today.”
“How can you tell what's significant and what isn't?” asked Erin. “I remember reading this story where a guy went back in time and trod on a butterfly–”
“Yes, but you're influencing someone who's already alive in the past,” Louise said, tapping the sketch-book. “And you've already affected him, because we can see the evidence in this. We found his drawing of you before you contacted him, so to speak.”
Erin pondered this idea for a moment.
“Doesn't that make it a closed loop in time?” she asked. “Because I saw the sketch I had to touch it, right? But it was my touching the sketch of me today that made him draw me back in 1864 – oh, Jeez, I think I'm getting a headache. And there's something else. I was half-expecting it, but it's still disturbing. Nick's there. He called himself Nichols, then, but it's the same guy. Forever young.”
Louise raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, I suppose he would be. Interesting, isn't it, our fallen angel seems to be bound to Weyrmouth, for all his powers. The whole world to roam and he spends centuries here.”
“Maybe I'll find out why,” said Erin. “But in the meantime, I really need to know if I can genuinely change the past.”
“Don't tell him about the H-bomb,” said Louise. “Or Celebrity Big Brother. He might lose the will to live.”
“Understood,” replied Erin with a wry grin. “I think I've thought of something that might work. Something trivial that can't really change anything. Okay, hold out the book!”
***
“You seem dreadfully nervous, Eddie!” said Molly, with a winsome smile. “I hope I'm not so terrifying that you feel yourself to be in peril?”
They were in the parlor of the Deardens' pleasant home. As a respectable young caller, Edward was allowed to take tea with Molly unchaperoned, though Mrs. Dearden had a habit of 'popping in' every few minutes.
“No, not at all,” Edward said, trying to sound confident.
“I'll be mother,” she said with a smile, picking up the teapot. When she handed him his tea his trembling rattled the china cup in its saucer.
“Oh, it's no good Molly,” he admitted, “I am dreadfully nervous. The fact is, I'm to go away. Perhaps for good, if I am unfortunate.”
And he told her about the smuggling voyage to America. Part of him was pleased when Molly grew pale. Then he feared she might faint and he might actually have to take hold of her to stop her falling and being injured. The feeling was at once exciting and terrifying.
“Oh, Edward,” she gasped. “I had thought – I mean, I had hoped that we might – you know what I mean?”
Molly blushed, and Edward felt a surge of affection for her.
She's the one, you idiot. Just say it!
The voice in his head was not quite his own. It was the same voice that had called him a 'poor kid' earlier. There was a feminine touch about it, and Edward thought of ancient legends concerning the artist's muse. He had assumed such stories were metaphorical until now. The inner voice came again.
Tick-tock! Get on with it, you dope!
“Molly,” he said, putting down his teacup with a clatter and falling to one knee on the hearthrug. “Will you be my wife?”
Five minutes later, Molly's father was giving his blessing to the engagement while a tearful Mrs. Dearden was blowing her nose. It might have been Edward's imagination, but he thought he detected a hint of relief when he told Molly's parents about his impending departure. His wayward muse returned to comment one last time.
Yeah, if you don't come back they can easily offload Molly onto a richer guy. She's quite a looker – good choice, you dog. The corset helps a lot but those are still world-class knockers.
Edward almost choked on a teacake, but after some back-slapping by his prospective father-in-law he recovered.
“Clearly, Mister Clore thinks very highly of you lad,” said Dearden. “Or he wouldn't have put you in charge of a valuable cargo. Where did you say you were going, again?”
“Er, Jamaica,” stammered Edward, sure that all the others must see through his lie. But all seemed convinced, and Mrs. Dearden even told him to stay out of the tropical sun as much as possible. After more congratulations, Edward said his goodbyes, whereupon Molly flung her arms around him and kissed him. This aroused guffaws of approval from her father. Then Molly and her mother rushed out of the room, weeping.
“Well, lad,” said Dearden, shaking Edward's hand vigorously, “look after yourself, and watch out for them foreigners. And don't fall into bad company! Many a good man has been ruined by a poor choice of friends.”
A bit late for that, old fella, said the inner voice. Our boy's already signed up with the bad guys.
Later that evening, Edward finished packing and lay half-clothed on his bed, wondering if he was going insane. It had been several hours since the feminine voice had spoken inside his head. But he still felt that he was not alone, that someone was observing not only his every movement but his every thought. He tried to read, but could not concentrate, and so lay smoking until the spring evening turned to twilight.
“Need to get a good night's sleep,” he said to himself, getting up to change into his nightshirt. But again, he felt the odd sense of being scrutinized.
“Who are you?” he whispered. “Why don't you leave me alone?”
Sorry, Eddie, came the voice. But you're kind of stuck with me for now. Try to get some sleep. I promise I'll be gone when you wake up.
“Am I going insane?” Edward asked.
Nah, you've just got a lot going on right now. I'll explain later. Maybe.
Sleep was a long time coming, but eventually, Edward did doze fitfully for a few hours. When he woke to full consciousness, he was surprised to find himself not lying on the bed, but seated at his desk. In front of him was the sketchbook, open at the mysterious portrait drawn that morning. Edward looked at the pencil in his hand, then at the scrawled words in the top right-hand corner of the picture.
Be careful! Nichols is not human!
The handwriting was not his.
***
“Erin? Erin!”
Louise's voice was filled with concern, almost panic. Erin felt hands grasp her under the arms. She looked up at her friend and realized that she had slumped off the chair and onto the floor.
“Damn, I can't lift you!” said Louise, bending over her. “Either I'm very unfit or you're made of something very dense.”
“Okay, I put on a few pounds in the hospital,” said Erin, struggling to her feet. “But that was kind of tactless.”
“Sorry,” Louise laughed. “What happened? Did you perform your experiment?”
“Check it out,” Erin replied, pointing at the sketchbook. “Has it changed? Top right hand corner.”
Louise examined the drawing.
“It's the most water damaged area,” she complained. “I can make out some words. 'Nichols', is that? And 'human'?”
“Were those words there before?” asked Erin.
“No,” said Louise, uncertainly. “At least, I don't remember them.”
Louise put a hand to her head, wincing.
“It's painful just to think about it,” she said. “Like a migraine coming on.”
“Something that s
mall,” said Erin. “Tiny material change, but it's problematic.”
“Oh God,” Louise moaned, leaning against the bookcase. “I feel awful. Too much light.”
Erin jumped up and drew the curtains.
“The light,” Louise said feebly. “Too much.”
Puzzled, Erin turned to see Louise curling up into a fetal ball. There was a light. It shone from the Victorian sketch-book. It was not a steady glow, but flickered and shimmered. Erin went closer and saw that the portrait and the words written beside it were changing with the light, definite, and clear one moment, then almost disappearing the next. Even as she watched the strange glow faded, died away.
“Oh, crap,” she said. “I think that's telling me I've interfered too much.”
Erin helped Louise to her feet and, leaning on each other, they hobbled out of the room into the dim-lit corridor.
“Oh, Jesus Christ that's better,” said Louise. “Just being near that thing was like – I don't know, having my brain turned inside out. I couldn't think straight at all. It was as if two different sets of memories were superimposed. Mental double-vision.”
“I'm sorry,” said Erin, “I don't know what happened.”
“That's the problem,” Louise replied. “That Bradbury story was spot on. If there's a set order to things, a way events are supposed to pan out …”
“I could wreck the world by tinkering,” Erin finished. “Looks like psychic time-travel is off the agenda.”
At least for now, she added to herself.
They reached the atrium of Weyrmouth Museum where Erin asked Amy to book a cab. Despite Louise's protests that she would be fine 'in a minute' Erin insisted that the director go home and recover. Neither mentioned the cause of the so-called migraine to Amy, who seemed to Erin distracted and more scatterbrained than usual.
“Something wrong?” Erin asked, after Louise had gone.
“No!” exclaimed Amy, not looking Erin in the eye. “No, I'm fine. Really. Just tell me what to do, and I'll get on with it.”
Erin spotted the obvious lie but decided not to challenge the girl. She had enough to worry about. She felt frustrated that her extraordinary ability to literally live in the past should be so problematic that she dare not use it. It seemed as if some higher power had dangled a wonderful prize in front of her, only to snatch it away.
Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2) Page 9
