by Ishbelle Bee
“Goliath?” Icabod leans forward. I had got lost watching the flames.
“I’m sorry. I am so very tired. I will tell you of what has happened, but first let me forget for a while. Tell me about your stories. Distract me.”
“Of course. I am currently working on my ninth children’s story. It is entitled Horace and the Magic Foot.”
“The title is dreadful.”
“Yes it is. But they will publish it, no doubt.”
“Tell me the plot.”
Icabod pours some more brandy. “Horace is an ordinary boy with a magical foot. His foot can grow extremely large, so he is able to kick in locked doors, stomp on wicked wizards and carry rescued maidens on it. One day, Horace grows tired of his magical foot because he simply can’t fit in the world and feels odd and unconnected. Anyway, he comes across a wizard who offers him a deal: he will remove his magical foot and replace it with a human one if he will help him kidnap a princess. Now Horace agrees to this and kidnaps the princess for the wizard but falls in love with her and, well... that’s really where I have got up to.”
“Any ideas on an ending?”
“It has to be a happy one, of course. It’s a fairy tale. What do you think?”
“I think I have missed you, Icabod. And the story is awful.”
Icabod laughs out loud. “It is, isn’t it? It’s bloody awful – they all are really. I always wanted to write crime detectives stories, like Sherlock Holmes,” and at this he lights his pipe. “Now are you ready to tell me your story, Goliath?”
“I fear my fairy story will not have a happy ending.”
“How can I help you write a better ending?”
“You are already doing a great deal to assist me, and for that I am eternally grateful. I could think of no other place we could go, or anyone else I could trust.”
And my eyes grow heavy and I feel myself drifting off into sleep.
I start to dream. I can see my father waving at me. In his hand is a little pot from the tomb of the princess. It has little green frogs painted on it. Inside the jar is a heart. He hands it to me.
“This belongs to you.”
I wake in the armchair. Icabod has put a blanket over me.
“Good morning,” he says sprightly. “She is still sleeping, but she seems fine.” He hands me a cup of coffee and brings in a large plate of buttered crumpets. “Tuck in.” And I do. I eat six and feel better. “Now,” he says, “tell me your story from beginning to end.”
And so I do, and for a long time Icabod says nothing, his eyes glazed over, deep in thought. The little clock chimes.
“What you tell me is extraordinary. You are not a man to make up such a story. I–” He pauses. “I believe you. But you must tell me, have you always been able to change into the form of animals?”
“No,” I said.
“Then how?”
“It is Mirror who has changed me. The day I rescued her from the clock, she held onto me so tight, so tight. Squeezed me. And I felt it then, something passed between us. Some form of magic She gave me this power so I could protect her.” And I took the last crumpet. Devoured it as though it were Mr Fingers’ head.
IX: Death Pays Mirror a Little Visit
I wake up from my dream. Shout out for Goliath but no noise comes out. Only air.
Sitting on the end of my bed is a small boy with black hair with a silver pocket watch gently gripped between his fingers. He looks curiously at me. “You and I have a problem,” he says. His voice is as soft as marshmallows.
“Who are you?” I sit upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“I am the last page in the book. I am all the endings. I am the collector of the dead. I am the father of time.”
“What do you want with me?”
The boy spins the watch between his fingers. “You owe me.”
He stuffs the watch into my mouth
* * *
Time is fizzing, bubbles in water. I am melting.
* * *
When I wake up again, he’s watching me carefully. His eyes are endless tunnels. “You have a great deal of power. I am not convinced you can use it wisely.”
“I don’t fully understand what I am.”
“You can alter time, bend it to your will. You can open doorways to other universes. Do you realise how dangerous that makes you?”
I don’t know what to say.
“Let me make something very clear to you. I can destroy you if I choose. You are not above the cosmic laws.”
And we stare at one another. The pocket watch in my stomach ticks gently.
“I suppose I should say thank you for not killing me,” I say.
“You’re welcome, Mirror. It was most interesting to meet you.”
I go downstairs, calling Goliath’s name. The mirror in the hall shows my reflection. I have aged. Lost years. I am no longer a girl, I have become a woman. He just gazes at me, mouth open like a goldfish. And then he squeezes me so tightly, with so much love. The only noise is the clock in the hallway ticking softly, and I can’t hear it.
In the house of Loveheart, the guests begin to wake. Mr Fingers adjusts his spectacles and walks out into garden, the rain pounding the earth. The gods watching him from above.
X: Aunt Rosebud & Mr Loveheart
I was not born wicked and yet I have become something wonderfully sinister.
I think I look rather fetching today: the mirror shows me a picture of a handsome man. But I don’t really recognize him. Perhaps he is me. Perhaps he is something nasty. I do like my jacket, it is lilac velvet and very soft to touch. The devil is supposed to dress beautifully.
I am walking down the long path towards Aunt Rosebud’s home. It is time I paid her a little visit. In my hands are an enormous bunch of flowers, violent purple and orange, a sign of my enduring love. She holds a special place in my heart. My heart, a cage hanging in an abyss. An iron birdcage. Maybe it’s empty. Maybe I shouldn’t think of such things.
I have passed the spiked gates of Crake Manor. No demon dog guards the entrance. No riddle to be answered. Should I be surprised? A great white house with a flowerless garden. Another emptiness.
I wonder about the conversation we shall have. No doubt she will remark upon my sanity, parentage and outfit. She doesn’t like flowers, so the gift is inappropriate. Darling Auntie, are we the same kind of wrong, you and I?
Rat a tat tat!
A marvellously decrepit looking manservant opens the door.
“I have come to see my Aunt,” I smile. Those magic words open the door, and I enter her domain with all my colour and my wicked flowers. Into a deep white space. I am walking on the moon.
I am escorted into the conservatory, leaving a trail of flower petals behind me. Visiting a minotaur in its labyrinth, I must of course find my way out again.
She stands erect and unmoving, a bible resting like a prop on the side table and a stuffed little dog in a glass case on the wall. Obviously her last pet. Maybe she has a glass case prepared for me? Stuffed and mounted on the wall. That would please her very much. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
“Auntie,” and I hold my hands out to the old dear.
She remains unmoved. “John, you look like a fool, some sort of clown.”
“Oh Auntie, you old charmer,” and I hand her the flowers, which she grasps rather wobbily and puts on her reading table.
“Frivolous.”
“I knew you’d like them.”
“You’ve grown up,” and she paused, “You’ve been spending time in the company of devils. Why have you come here John?” She examines me coldly.
“I am your nephew and I haven’t seen you in years. I’ve been thinking about you, Auntie. A lot,” and I lower my eyes.
“You were always a ridiculous child. Spoilt by your philandering father. Ungrateful and ungodly. That stargazing contraption he gave you,” (and she shook her head) “I told him it was a machine of the devil. Stargazing is ungodly. Unclean. Unnatural.”
She says nothing for a while.
“You understand so little, John. I told your father you clearly had an underdeveloped brain, prone to excitement and imagination. You were always a little liar.”
“Why did you do it, Auntie?”
“Do what, exactly, you little wretch?”
“Poison Mamma? I just want to know before I go as we may never see one another again.”
“How dare you! I was the only one who stopped her suffering. She needed to be put to sleep into the arms of the Lord.”
“And how many others have you put to sleep?”
“Dozens,” she says softly. “Including my late husband, my children and my dog.”
“I really have missed you, Auntie!” I cry happily and I pull out from my waistcoat a long silver curved sword. My voice lowered like a prayer, “We have so much to catch up on”
I chop her into pieces. A blood bath in the conservatory. And then I leave, whistling to myself.
The day shines a little brighter. The flowers bloom with a touch more colour.
Death & Mr Fingers have tea & cake
If you look at me, you see a little boy. If you look closer you will see the universe floating in my eyes. Gaze of a surgeon, smile of a scissor shark. I am Death. I am the Great Collector. I am behind every closed door.
Today I am walking through the streets of London. The gentlemen in their top hats and elegant smiles stroll past me.
* * *
Black boils
Cancer
Muscle Spasm
Cholera
Syphilis
Heart Attack
Poison
Hangman’s Noose
* * *
It is written on their faces. The letters thick and inky, imprinted on their skulls. Written in coils of time. Your fates are a teasing itch – you always want to know the outcome. Scratch it and see. London, city of poisoned water, sour milk, fish stink and shit. Blood bubbles and drips down the thighs of her. London: the bite of a mad dog, the kiss of a witch-woman. London: you eat raw flesh, dissect and arrange skulls. Mother: I know you from before. I have seen your face.
I have an appointment with the Lord of the Underworld. We are meeting in a tea shop down Dumpy Street. He’s waiting for me, sits by the window of the winding, labyrinthine path. Smells of dead dog and boiled flesh down here. Mangled human beings, ragtag smiles and webbed feet, stare at me from the walls: huddled, hungry, sheep-yellow eyes.
Ladybird waistcoat, dark spectacles. Odd little man. I’ve never liked him. He reminds me of an autopsy: things have been removed, things are missing.
He nods as I sit down and pours the pot of steaming tea into little blue china teacups.
“So, why did you want to see me?” He peers over his spectacles and sips his tea. “I am rather busy at the moment.”
“Did you order some cake?”
“No,” he replies, rather annoyed.
I catch the eye of the young waitress, her hair the colour of roasting chestnuts, watery eyes, laudanum laced love-letters in her pocket.
Sudden heart failure
“Do you have any chocolate cake?”
“Yes, sir. Freshly made. Whipped cream in the middle.”
“A very large slice, please.”
Mr Fingers stares at me. “Well... I’m waiting for an answer.”
“I am here to give you a little friendly advice.”
“Oh really?” and he laughs out loud.
“Yes. You’re playing with witches again.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The ladybird girl. You will leave her alone.”
He looks surprised.
My cake arrives. “Thank you,” I say, and bite into a large mouthful.
“Why do you care about this girl? What business is it of yours?”
“This cake is excellent, and chocolate makes me happy.”
Mr Fingers pounds table with his fist. “Answer me!”
“You have always been prone to childish tantrums. It is one of your flaws.”
“How dare you. I am the Lord of the Underworld!”
I rise from my seat. I lift a finger to the ceiling, as though pointing to heaven. Everyone in the tearoom drops dead. Falls like flies.
* * *
Thud
thud
thud.
* * *
He shuts up.
I sit back down and resume eating my cake.
“You’re just showing off. Why can’t I have her?” he says, annoyed.
“It will upset the natural balance of this world. You cannot be allowed to increase your powers. I will not allow such chaos.”
“You’re always spoiling my fun,” he snarls.
“Why don’t you have a piece of cake?”
“Fuck off!”
If you speak to me like that again I WILL END YOU.
XI: September 1888
Little Woman
I am a child woman. I look at my reflection in Icabod’s hall mirror. I am tall. My face plain and pale. My hair bright and short like fire. Spiderweb lines on my face, delicate markers of my transition. And I look at Goliath, my protector. Things must change between us now. The love between us new and bright and frightening. I must protect him now. I touch his face with my hands. My pale hands against his dark skin and great beard. And we both know. We both know and we are afraid.
The three of us sit on the train to London. I am wearing a green dress and gloves which Goliath has bought me. It feels soft and alien against my body. It is the green of frogs and fairy tales. It is raining outside, the great black thickening rivers glittering like snake skin. Umbrellas open like black bird wings while the raindrops pound the earth. The world is becoming water.
Icabod reads The Times, gripping it like a holy parchment while Goliath holds my hand in his. The train chugs on like a tug boat, the Kentish countryside lush and rolling like waves. We are off to see an acquaintance of Icabod’s: a hypnotist and psychoanalyst called Mr Edmund Cherrytree. He believes he can help me.
“How long have you known this man?” asks Goliath worriedly
“For about a year. We met at a book launch party. We share the same publisher. He’s an odd sort of a man, but he has an interest in unusual patients and a gift to help them. He has an illustrious reputation and he seemed very interested in Mirror’s situation and eager to see her.” Icabod returns to The Times, eyes dancing over the headlines. “The Ripper still eludes Scotland Yard. It’s a bloody disgrace. I fear it will end very badly.”
“They believe he is a butcher or a surgeon,” says Goliath.
“I don’t think they know what he is,” Icabod sighs.
Goliath says sadly. “He’s clearly insane”
I think about the dead women of Jack the Ripper. I imagine them lying on a table served up for dinner. I imagine Jack the Ripper with a knife and fork in his hands and a napkin resting delicately in his lap.
“What if he isn’t mad?” I say.
“Then we are living in a kind of hell.” And Icabod puts the paper down and stares out of the window, at a world sinking in water.
The train arrives at Victoria Station, the platform bustling with people, churning with soot and steam from the engines like a cooking pot. And we walk out into the great arms of London, into the capital of the world. The faces of the crowds are like a strange painting. An old woman is selling flowers on the street; she has no teeth and she stares at me. And I can feel the emptiness. A man is smacking a small child with the back of his hand and then spits, steam is rising from the streets, cracking open. Ready to burst. There is something red underneath London. It is the red of the flowers of the Egyptian princess, it is the red of Jack the Ripper, it is the red of a painter smearing oils on a canvas. It’s on my hands too. I’m sure.
Mr Cherrytree’s office is a short walk from the stati
on. I can smell Mr Fingers, he’s under the smog and the stench of horse manure, under the shadows and grime. In the dark corners, hiding and waiting. He smells of something burning, like ribbons thrown on a fire. I think I can smell him on me. I’m not sure if I understand fear. I do not really know what it is anymore. And yet I know I should be afraid. I know what it smells like. It’s the wolf in all those fairy stories Goliath read me. It’s Jack the Ripper. It’s the dark hole in that old woman’s mouth. It’s all around me. I am in the painting. I am in the red world.
We arrive at a very smart house on a bustling side street. The air smells smoky, hanging like a veil, concealing something, the sky as white as a shroud lying over the face of the sun.
As we enter the establishment we are greeted by Mr Cherrytree’s assistant, a young, handsome gentleman who escorts us up to a waiting room. The walls of which are covered in framed spiritual photographs depicting the human soul leaving the body at the moment of death. Both eerie and fascinating, my eyes follow their trail around the room: an elderly woman lying face down in the snow, a wisp of ectoplasm rising like steam from her body; a soldier on a battlefield, eyes glazed, and again a wisp of soul emerging. Above Goliath’s head, three sisters who have taken poison whilst taking tea lie slumped in their seats, an ooze of weird light seeping from them and floating to the ceiling. We are sitting in a tomb, on a dead white planet. The dead captured in photographs, like genies swirling in a bottle. And yet there is something wrong with the pictures, something off. Something empty.
Icabod looks a little nervous. “What ghoulish pictures. I do hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake bringing you here.”
We have no answer for him. Then in walks Mr Cherrytree, whose skin is as pale as my own. His beard as black as a fairy tale forest.
