The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E)

by Ishbelle Bee

  A god has become a clock. A clock has become a girl. A wicked little metamorphosis.

  I am really quite hungry, now.

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  Tick tock.

  VI: Time Machines

  An Evening at the House of Loveheart

  We emerge from the darkness. Pink dazzles the night sky as our carriage drives along the country roads. It is the pink of Egypt; it sizzles. I think the pyramids were giant time machines where the King’s body was transported to the Land of the Dead and the black-ooze river of the underworld. I remember seeing the burial chamber of a king and his treasures found by Goliath’s father – ostrich feather fans, ebony statues, a solid gold sarcophagus.

  Inside the tombs were magical maps to help the King through the underworld, to help him pass the demons who guarded the doorways. If you failed the test your soul was eaten by a demon.

  Why do those words make me think of Mr Loveheart? Is he a king? Is he wandering in the underworld on a quest to keep his soul? Wicked, beautiful, mad Mr Loveheart. You are stuffed with hearts. They burst out of your eyes, fall to your feet like severed heads. Your guts are red ribbons. Your heart is a rose. I can see you, Mr Loveheart. I can see what he has done to you. He has murdered part of you. Buried you beneath deep earth, buried you alive.

  You are a forest on fire.

  Burn them, Mr Loveheart. Burn them all into nothing.

  I remember the Sunday sermons I used to attend with my sisters. The vicar never mentioned magical maps or scarab beetles. He never mentioned the hippopotamus goddess or the crocodile god, the one who gobbled everything up. Instead, he would roll his eyes and point a long, pale finger at a statue of a man nailed to a cross. He talked about pain and hellfire. He talked about sacrifice a lot. I think that was his favourite word.

  I bet the Egyptian priests would laugh themselves silly.

  I remember the sermons on forgiveness. I remember the rain miserably pounding on the church windows. I remember the long sighs and much rolling of eyeballs of the vicar. I remember wishing he would drop down dead just so it would end, just so it would be over.

  I think about those Egyptian priests, who have knives and mirrors in their hands, banquets and harvests, magic books of the dead, dragonflies in their ears and honey on their lips.

  I look up at the sky; the pink is disappearing. Egypt is slipping away. I have been dazzled. I have been infected by it. When this is all over I want to go back there and lick the tombs of the pharaoh and dance with the priests.

  Mr Loveheart leans over towards me. “Your name interests me very much. Mirrors are portals to other worlds.”

  “I would like to see other worlds,” I say.

  “Be careful what you wish for.” He winks.

  The carriage pulls up in front of the house of Mr Loveheart. It is a fairy tale palace. There are white turrets with secret, slitted windows, battlements for archers and banners, perhaps a princess locked in a tower waiting to be rescued. Other carriages are nearby: guests have arrived to view the machines of Mr Loveheart. I can hear music and laughter within, a rustle of skirts and the smell of cigar smoke. Goliath takes my hand as we enter the kingdom of the wicked prince.

  An Egyptian mummy’s sarcophagus perches in the hallway, inspected by a monocle-eyed gentleman as round as an apple, a gentleman whom Mr Loveheart pats on the shoulder and greets enthusiastically. “Mr Orion, a pleasure. You like the Pharaoh?”

  Mr Orion raises his bald head. “Really marvellous. What a treat. And you think this may transport me back through time to see Cleopatra?”

  “My father believed in these objects and their power. I am simply grateful to be able to get rid of them.”

  Mr Orion says, “I am sure we can strike a deal.” His monocle wobbles as he inspects the Pharaoh closely. “Perhaps I need to climb inside to be transported, so to speak?”

  “As you wish, dear sir, as you wish,” and Mr Loveheart manoeuvres us around Mr Orion into the sitting room, where a half dozen characters are viewing a great metal spiked wheel with a seat engineered in the middle, which rocks gently back and forth.

  We are escorted towards a little room where the fireplace is roaring, and a small gentleman wearing little black glasses is watching the flames. Mr Loveheart leads me towards him. “There is Mr Fingers. Go and chit chat with him,” and he gently shoves me in.

  Goliath and Mr Loveheart stand by the door while I step closer towards him. Each footstep drawing me nearer to those flames, each footstep marked by the ticking of a clock. He raises his head slightly and looks at me, his voice rustling like leaves.

  “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Mirror.” He extends his hand towards me. I touch it and feel a thousand clocks tick tock, tick tock. Such immense pressure, my head hurts. I let go of his hand. The fire flickers like devil tongues.

  “I went to visit your grandfather in the asylum.”

  I say nothing.

  He continues, “We had a long conversation, mainly about the clock he stole. He knew what it was. He obeyed its instructions without question. Killed your sisters. How frail humans are, don’t you think, Miss Mirror?”

  “You are wrong. Goliath is strong.”

  Mr Fingers gazes at Goliath. “Your guardian. Mm hmm. He’s not really human either, is he though, eh? He certainly gave Loveheart a surprise.”

  “And so here we are on this beautiful evening, the four of us in a house stuffed full of humans, curious about a collection of strange, useless artefacts that they believe can carry them across time. It’s very funny watching them cooing over these metal contraptions as though they magical. They really are unbelievably stupid.” He gazes at the crackling fire, “Do you want to know what your grandfather said about you, or should I say, your former self?”

  “No, not really. I never liked him. I wish Goliath had killed him.”

  “Human relations. Another stupidity. Well, your grandfather told me you had turned into a ladybird. I happen to like ladybirds very much. He was of course completely insane.”

  I notice the ladybirds embroidered on his waistcoat, red and black and jewel-like.

  “Do you like Mr Loveheart?”

  “I think in some ways he is like me. Something very bad happened to him and has changed him.”

  “Ah,” Mr Fingers sounds interested. “Do you think he is capable of redemption?”

  “I think he has been poisoned. His heart has turned black. Maybe if he kills those responsible for hurting him, he can be free.”

  “A wicked prince in a fairy tale, under a curse. How romantic. Let me tell you a secret, Miss Mirror. He is both terrified of you and yet he loves you. And this is because you can see straight into what is left of his soul.”

  I don’t know how to respond so I gaze at the floor, the sound of the fire crackling and bubbling.

  Mr Fingers bends his head towards me. “You know this house is on the edge of London, the great capital of the world. The river Thames oozes past this great house, like a giant serpent. Do you like London?”

  “It was my home. When I think of it, I think of my sisters. It makes me feel a great sadness. It is part of my past.”

  “It is my favourite place on the planet to visit. Full of magic, if you know where to look,” he says curiously.

  “I am tired of your questions. What do you want with me?”

  “And now we come to that.” He raises his hands to his chin, as though in prayer. “I want you to leave with me, tonight. Be a good girl and do as you are told and please me.”

  “You plan to kill me?”

  Mr Fingers takes off his spectacles. His eyes are two black holes. It is like looking at a shark. “No. I plan to eat you.”

  Goliath has Mr Fingers by the throat, held up in the air like a rag doll. He is choking and spluttering. I hear his ne
ck break. Goliath throws him to the floor and picks me up in his arms and runs through the house. I look behind to see Mr Fingers rise up with the help of Mr Loveheart.

  We cannot kill him. We cannot kill him.

  We race past the huge metal wheel and then down a long corridor. Goliath kicks in a double door, which swings open to reveal a large chamber with a few guests, including Mr Orion, examining a series of contraptions: a mirrored coffin, an enormous metal chamber with cogwheels and a set of shrunken heads displayed in a cabinet. The room is a dead end.

  We turn to see Mr Loveheart and Mr Fingers by the door. Mr Fingers speaks. “Miss Mirror, come to me.”

  Goliath looks around the room for an exit. He puts me on the floor and turns into an enormous wolf and leaps into the air. There’s a tremendous shriek from the people in the room. The giant wolf sinks his teeth into Mr Fingers’ neck, almost decapitating him. And then there is the sound of laughing and all is quiet and Goliath is no longer a wolf, but himself lying on the floor. Mr Fingers removes his hand from Goliath’s chest, holding his heart.

  Goliath is not moving. I run over and touch his face. “You cannot be dead,” I cry. Something is breaking inside of me. Such rage. Mr Fingers towers over me. “Come with me, now. It is over.”

  I step back from him into the middle of the room. Mr Fingers raises his voice. “Do not be foolish. Come along, child.”

  I can feel those stupid metal contraptions around me, dead and unmoving. I can hear the shrunken heads, bickering, stuffed in the cabinet. I can feel the river Thames lapping around my feet. I can smell the blood on Mr Fingers’ hands. I let the rage boil through me like electricity.

  And the machines start to move. A clattering, a shifting of cogs and mechanisms, rusty and ancient. They are shifting and pulsing. The great wheel spins round and round. The glass coffin shatters into a thousand pieces. The cage is hit by a lightning bolt and judders into action. The shrunken heads are chanting. I feel the river Thames turn black and boil.

  Mr Loveheart and Mr Fingers stand transfixed like statues, utterly speechless. The house is full of screams and people running. I look at Goliath’s great body, lying on the floor and I say, “I am going to bring you back, whatever the consequences.”

  The time machines whir. Time shifts. Every window in that great house breaks. Energy moves through me. The house spins like a spinning top.

  And then it is quiet. Goliath rises from the floor and carries me out of that house while rest of them are caged in time, porcelain statues, only able to watch us leave. I blow a kiss to Mr Loveheart as Goliath kicks open the front door to the house and we walk into the moonlight, the stars above us shimmering like diamonds. The house of Loveheart and its inhabitants frozen like mannequins on a stage.

  VII: Whatever the Consequences

  In the deepest sleep I fall into the arms of Goliath. Deep like the bottom of the sea. A magical coma. I can’t wake myself up.

  I am trapped in a dreamworld, locked up in the grandfather clock.

  I am lying on a bed in a forest. Beside me, the grandfather clock ticks gently. His great eggy eyes roll from side to side. The trees in the forest are deep and dark, branches coiling, frogs croaking softly.

  And I sleep and the clock ticks, singing to me its mechanical lullaby.

  After some time a little boy with hair the colour of lemons approaches me. He is carrying some flowers.

  “I picked these from the forest for you,” he says. He is small and shy. The flowers, tiny and blue and shaped like stars.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is John Loveheart and I am lost in the forest with you.”

  And he sits on the bed with me while I hold the flowers.

  “They are very pretty. Thank you.”

  Holding hands we walk into the trees, like Hansel and Gretel.

  “Will you help me get out of here?” he says.

  “Yes,” I reply. The grandfather clock watches us leave.

  We walk into a clearing where a little house made of sweets and chocolate stands. It looks delicious. Through the window I can see a lemon drizzle cake sitting like a golden treasure.

  “Don’t go in there,” says Loveheart. “Do not eat any of it. A witch lives in there. It is all poisoned.”

  And so we continue, the smell of candyfloss under my nostrils, back into the darkness of the wood.

  We come across Mr Rufus Hazard holding a rifle, pointing it into the trees. We approach him carefully, and when he sees us he smiles, big and beaming. “Well hello there.” He has a big sack next to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” says Loveheart.

  “I am hunting,” he grins. “Do you want to see what I have caught?”

  We look into the bag. There is a dead girl in there.

  “The other one has run away. But I shall find her.”

  “Do you know how we can get out of the forest?” I ask him. Loveheart is frightened and stands behind me.

  “Mmm, I can’t remember,” he says, stroking his moustache,”but there is a lady sitting in a tree over there who may be able to help you.” He points in a rough direction and then lifts his rifle again, and so we leave him and walk over a carpet of lavender and moss and come across a huge gnarled tree with white death masks all over it. Mrs Foxglove, in a long, blue dress, is sitting on a branch, drinking a cup of tea. She stares down at us.

  “Lovely morning, isn’t it?” The death masks are chatting and she tuts at them, “Oh, do be quiet, children, we have visitors.” The death masks grumble.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you. Please can you tell us how to get out of this wood?”

  Mrs Foxglove looks puzzled. “I don’t understand the question, dear.”

  And so we leave her. And we walk for many hours, and eat berries and nuts, and drink from the stream. And we finally find a clearing where a traveling magician sits with a white rabbit in his top hat. It is Mr Fingers.

  Loveheart says gently, “That man is not my father.”

  Mr Fingers looks at me and says, “Would you like to stroke the rabbit, little girl?” The rabbit, I notice, has black eyes.

  “No, I would not.”

  “Would you like to play a game?” He tilts his head slightly.

  “No. How do we get out of this wood?” I demand.

  “Little girl, there are consequences for what you have done. You have manipulated time. You have turned back the clocks. You have broken cosmic laws. Such action does not go unpunished.”

  “You are in no position to judge me, sir. You are a nasty little demon. And I have trapped you in time.”

  “Not for much longer,” he sighs. “It is sad that we cannot be friends.” And he pulls a bunch of fake flowers from his sleeve, hands them to me and laughs.

  “What is going to happen to her?” Loveheart pleads.

  “You will have to wait and see. It’s a surprise.”

  VIII: Goliath & his Schoolfriend, Mr Icabod Tiddle

  I carry her as far away as I can. Miles across England, under a sack of space. Nowhere becomes, finally, somewhere – the home of my old school friend, Icabod Tiddle, the celebrated writer of children’s fairy stories. I haven’t seen him for nearly twenty years and Mirror is slumped in my arms when I knock on the door of his cottage in the Kentish village of Otford. It is raining heavily, the drops pounding the earth. And thankfully, after all these years, he recognises me and lets me in.

  Mirror is taken to the spare bedroom, still in this strange coma, and I kiss her on the cheek and go to sit by the fire with Icabod.

  His cottage is covered in scribblings and ideas for his stories. On the walls are dark ink illustrations of wicked witches and a prince trapped in a great forest. A selection of fairy postcards line the kitchen cupboards, each fairy performing a different task: singing, dancing, playing a pipe, kissing a frog. A great oak bookshelf displays his numerous published works, in both alphabetical and colour coded order. He is a stickler for fine details. He ha
s the unusual quality of possessing skills of both imagination and order.

  I had read some of his stories to Mirror over the last year. They were accomplished, perfectly crafted pieces with colour and wit. Little whimsical fairy tales for children. Pale moons hung over enchanted, fairy-kissed forests. Giants carried hedgehogs over magic bridges to safety. His landscapes were colourful, but more importantly, safe.

  Icabod is a small boned, bird-like man with strawberry blonde hair and an impish little face, full of imagination and kindness. His eyes are small and green, the colour of frogs. He hands me a very large glass of brandy and pokes the fire nimbly. I am exhausted and slump myself in a great patchwork-quilted chair and feel the wonderful heat of the flames warm me, my beard still dripping with raindrops.

  “Thank you dear friend,” I say gulping down the brandy

  “You are more than welcome. It is lovely surprise too see you after so many years. I don’t often get visitors, other than Mrs Spoons, who pops in for a bit of local gossip and brings me her homemade plum cake.”

  “I am sorry it has been so long. You are the bestselling author on fairy tales in England and, according to The Times, a national treasure.”

  Icabod looks kindly at me. “I have been extremely fortunate. I could have ended up a Vicar, as my father intended.”

  “You never married?”

  “I was engaged briefly but she broke it off. She hated my stories. Said they were twaddle,” and he laughs to himself, and then he looks at me, concerned. “Goliath, please tell me what has happened.”

  The fire spits and flickers. The fire poker, I notice, has a little bee on the handle. And the fireplace has engravings of imps dancing and butterflies. It is a lovely fairy tale world he lives in. There are no little girls locked up in clocks, starving to death. There are no demons. His world is safe and soft. If I could I would put Mirror into his world. But I fear it would not be able to hold her.