by Jim DeFelice
"Mouthy for a girl," said Timothy, leaning over her to make sure she was merely sleeping. "But pretty, even with the short hair."
"I'd be careful what I accused her of," answered Jake. "She insults very easily. And would most likely be more than your match in a fight."
"I should like to wrestle her sometime and find out."
For all his protests against her behavior, Jake was starting to feel just a bit protective — and even fatherly. He scowled toward young Timothy, then hoisted Alison over his shoulder. "Come on, lead the way."
The Hulter farm was a fertile holding of nearly twenty cleared acres given over to the cultivation of corn. Indeed, it had been used for that purpose for several generations, spanning back to its original native owners. The house itself was not more than ten years old, a replacement for a structure that had caught fire one winter night when the fireplace was carelessly over-stoked. A story-and-a-half, with finely decorated eaves and handsomely carved shutters, it was typical of the humble farmhouses that dot the island, save in one regard. This was its elaborate garden, which ranged on all four sides at some depth surrounding the building. All manner of bushes and flowers crowded together in an elaborate though specially ordered jumble. Each had its own medicinal purpose; more than a few were rare to these shores, nurtured by Timothy's mother's careful hand.
Grace Hulter was Professor Bebeef s youngest sister. The natural philosopher had always doted on her when she was small; as she grew, she returned the favor severalfold. They were close despite the years between them.
Grace's husband had left to join the Continental Army the previous year; she had had no word from him since. Grace refused to countenance the neighborhood whispers that he had met his fate below White Plains. True or not, the rumors filled even her most vitriolic Tory neighbors with pity for the famously kind woman. Grace administered mild cures to all in the surrounding country without regard to politics. Thus her husband's sins were not held too strongly against her, though she was suspected of being a quiet rebel herself.
By the time Jake unloaded the sleeping Alison from his shoulder onto a wooden chair propped near the front door, the sun was sending an advance party of rays to test the horizon. Timothy led Jake directly to the back yard, where the old professor was sitting beneath a rare and beautiful rose bush. In his hand was a brown-colored rock not more than three inches long and another inch wide, rough-hewn around the edge, as if it were a petrified piece of wood. It seemed to glow faintly; the old man's eyes, wide open in what seemed like perpetual astonishment, shone with the reflected light.
Despite the fact that he was now, well past sixty, Bebeef’s hair was full and thick, the magnificent locks falling around his ears and draping across the velvet of his fine cloak. He wore the doctor's robes of the monastery where he had studied during his youth, as was his habit when engaged in one of his more esoteric experiments.
Jake had never seen him in such a stupor. He advanced cautiously. Despite all his learning and experience, he could not dismiss outright the possibility that the stone did indeed contain some form of black magic.
"Professor, it's Jake Gibbs. I need your help. Professor?"
Bebeef s stare did not alter, nor was there any other sign that he had noticed Jake.
"He does not stir for days at a time," said Mrs. Hulter, coming out from the house. Dressed in a plain white country dress, she seemed to float across the stone path, her willowy hair tied in a modest bun at the back of her neck. "He will not move or acknowledge anyone and eats only a small bit of food."
"It's good to see you, Grace," said Jake, hugging her.
"And you, too." There was a look of regret in her eye at that moment, and perhaps a veiled acknowledgment that her husband had indeed met his fate. She quickly stepped back when Jake released her.
"What is the rock?" he asked.
"From looking at it, I would say a simple Bezoar stone. It arrived unannounced, with a note proclaiming its magic as a mad stone. My brother scoffed, then took it with him to the garden here. That was nearly two weeks ago. Nothing I have done has helped."
"Have you tried to remove it from his hands?"
"I cannot seem to shake it loose. It is as if it were glued."
Jake knew of mad stones, even if his scientific studies had not included them. Stones of various descriptions had been known for centuries, and they were generally said to cure ailments such as warts and sniffles. Jake's family had even attempted to buy one famous for its fever cures in Virginia. But the spell this stone seemed to have cast on Bebeef was right out of
The Arabian Nights.
Or perhaps a very esoteric cure book.
"Is your brother's library still stored in the barn?"
"Of course," answered Mrs. Hulter.
"There is a book based on notes by Avicenna, the grand vizier and body surgeon of Persia," said Jake. "I would like to consult it."
Mrs. Hulter had no idea which book he was talking about, but was only too happy to do anything that might cure her brother. Most of his store of ancient texts was packed in crates in the cellar below the barn's main floor, protected by a ponderous guard of heavy rocks. It took Jake more than two hours to move the stones away and find the work, a translation in Latin of a text dating from the tenth century. Mad stones were fully described, and though Jake's command of the noble tongue was rusty, he was able to ascertain that no such effect was documented. He therefore turned to Bebeef s own encyclopedic study — not of mad stones, but of paralytic poisons.
It was nearly noon before he had read enough to attempt a cure. As Timothy had gone off to bed and Alison was still slumbering, Jake enlisted Mrs. Hulter as an assistant. He made her wrap her hands in thick gloves, and cover her body with several layers of clothes, until only her eyes showed through. These he covered with gauze so tightly that she could barely see.
"I hope you're not expecting me to speak in tongues," she declared.
"Hardly," said Jake. "There is no magic here, just a powerful poison. The cure is surprisingly simple — largely coca powder and menthol. But first we have to strike the rock from his hands. If my guess is correct, the underside is covered with a gummy substance obtained from a bush in the French Alps, which acts as a glue."
Jake filled a pot with water and let it boil over the fire. As he waited, he too covered his body with the thickest cloths he could find.
His hands were so well padded that he was able to take the hot iron handle of the black kettle in them.
"Are you going to burn him?" asked Mrs. Hulter, the concern in her voice clear despite the rags protecting her face.
"I am afraid it will," said Jake. "When I give the signal, grab his head and pull him away from the stone."
They walked back to the garden, where the philosopher had not stirred an inch in the hours since Jake had left him. The patriot spy took up the kettle and held it over Bebeefs hands, then told Mrs. Hulter to be ready.
"I'm sorry to hurt you, professor," Jake told Bebeefs unmoving body a second before tilting the burning liquid. "But I believe the cure better than the disease, and I have great need of your help."
Mrs. Hulter grabbed her brother beneath the arms and hauled backwards as Jake started to pour the water. Bebeef fell from the chair, but the shock of the scalding water barely registered on his face. His hands were still stuck fast to the stone.
Jake kicked at his wrists and poured the rest of the water. Finally, with a loud, piercing scream, Bebeef began to writhe beneath his sister's arms, and the poisoned stone fell from his hands to the ground.
Chapter Thirty
Wherein, Alison becomes a butterfly.
There's no fool as an old fool," said Bebeef a half hour later, restored to consciousness and some comfort by a formula taken from his own book of cures. He had refused bed rest and was even now setting his laboratory in the barn loft back to order. The immense room was filled with even more tubes, jars, and bottles than his store in Manhattan. A long table ran through the cent
er of the room, and a large cabinet of fancy walnut trays sat beneath a triangular window at the far end of the room. A jar of healing salts sat open on the middle rung, having been used to take some of the sting from the burns.
"Naturally, I should have suspected something was amiss when the package arrived. But I have such a contempt for these blasted stones and their superstitions. People look everywhere for cures these days, instead of consulting with those who have studied the body and its humors scientifically."
"I am sorry about your hands," said Jake. "But according to your notes, there was no other way to destroy the gum."
"Couldn't be helped," said the old man almost cheerfully. Thick gauze saturated with several ointments covered his hands, but otherwise he was in good shape. "These will hamper me, but I have suffered handicaps before."
"Do you know who prepared the stone?"
"There are only a few people with the knowledge to concoct something like this, and none bear me grudges," said the professor. "With the exception of one man, who has betrayed all his oaths and duties to the sacred knowledge he has gathered. He conducted human experiments for many years in London, and some friends have tried to have him arrested. I joined their petitions some months ago, but I had not heard if they were successful."
"You're talking about Harland Keen," said Jake.
It was one of the few times in his life Jake actually surprised the professor. "You know him?"
"He is an assassin for the secret department. He has tried several times to kill me."
"The secret department?"
"It is a coterie of men sworn to the king and charged with assassination. Keen has been after me for some time. I thought I had killed him a few weeks ago, but apparently he found a way to escape."
Bebeef tried to grab hold of Jake's arm with his bandaged hand. "You must be extremely careful. The man has a great store of knowledge — truly he is the incarnation of Faust, if not the devil himself."
Bebeef‘s gaze fluttered momentarily. It was as if he could see through the window's chintz fly barrier, out over the countryside, past the Heights, the bay, into the city itself, searching for his enemy.
"He is not immortal," the professor said finally. "No man can cheat death. But Keen's mastery of medicines and the body are more than those of the entire college of Edinburgh taken together."
"Beyond yours as well?"
Bebeef laughed lightly. "I am but a poor country scholar. You see how easily I am fooled."
"Keen must have prepared the stone some time ago. He has been busy of late."
"Perhaps we can assume from his presence in America that our petitions were successful. So that is something. But come, Jake. I hope you did not travel here just to save me."
"I would have," said Jake. "I owe you my life several times over. But I also have great need of your help. I want to kill someone. And then revive him."
"The first part of the equation is easily solved, but the second has given philosophers fits for centuries."
"Why else would I have sought you out?"
The professor's eyebrows began percolating, as if their roots were rubbing the furls of his brain.
"There will be witnesses, so the death must seem absolutely genuine," said Jake. "That is its whole point: I need to kidnap the man for a few hours without anyone realizing it. I was thinking of some sort of paralyzing powder," he added. "Something, perhaps, derived from a sea ray?"
"Paralyzing a man is not the same as killing him. He will continue to breathe heavily with that family of medicines."
"Something else then. I need only a few minutes. But it must be convincing and relatively safe," added Jake, "as I will probably have to die as well."
As Bebeef contemplated the problem, Jake studied the lines in the old man's face. Each seemed to record an entire library being investigated.
"The solution is not so elaborate as you think," said Bebeef finally, his face glowing as he remembered a formula used by certain South American natives in their religious ceremonies. "We will begin with a mandrake root from the garden. Bring me the green-spined book from the storage downstairs. Really, the formula is so simple to prepare I am surprised that you did not think of it yourself."
"That is what you said about the shrinking potion you gave my father for the dog."
"Oh yes, but I am sure this one will work."
Alison slept soundly upstairs for many hours, until well past two. Mrs. Hulter, realizing by some innate sense that her guest was about to wake, walked silently into the room and stood by the bedside, so she was with her when she opened her eyes.
"It's all right, dear, you're among friends," said Mrs. Hulter as Alison bolted upright in confusion. She put her hand gently on her shoulder, urging her back. "Rest a while longer. Jake has told me all about your troubles. I am sorry for your poor father."
A strange sensation took hold of Alison's chest, and suddenly she felt as if her heart had burst. Without warning, she began crying uncontrollably. Mrs. Hulter bent down and held her in her arms as the poor girl was overcome by the grief she had held so firmly in check.
She cried for a solid hour before finally falling back on the bed, exhausted and spent.
"It is a terrible ordeal to lose your father," said the older woman gently. "I cried for days when mine passed on. And I hardly knew my mother."
"Me neither," said Alison.
"My husband now, too, is missing," said Mrs. Hulter, her lips quivering. "There are rumors he is dead."
"Jake can help find him," said Alison.
Mrs. Hulter smiled weakly as she took control of herself. "He has tried. Come. Let us see about getting you something to eat, and some clothes."
"What happened to the clothes I was wearing?"
Her hostess wrinkled her nose. "Those things? They smelled of the river, and several farms' worth of animals."
"They were my disguise."
"Yes, they certainly disguised you," said Mrs. Hulter, in a tone that made it clear she was taking a proprietary interest in her young charge. "But you seem to be ready to burst the bounds of any such disguise. You have even excited some interest from my son."
"Really?"
"He's too young for you, dear; he's barely thirteen. But he had a look in his eyes when he told me about you."
"A look?"
"Men get an expression in their eyes, as if the sockets will collapse."
"Is that love?"
"Well, it is something like it."
"Can I trust you with a secret?"
"Of course."
"I love Jake."
The words rushed from her so suddenly they surprised her.
"Many women love him," said Mrs. Hulter gently. "But. ."
"Do you think he loves me?"
Mrs. Hulter sighed deeply, trying to be diplomatic without lying to the girl. "He is too old for you, dear."
"He's not much older than I, only six or seven years."
"The war has aged him in ways it is difficult to explain." Mrs. Hulter tugged her arm gently. "Do you think he loves you?"
"He saved my life. And I saved his."
"That is one type of love," allowed the older woman. "Still, I think you are after something else, aren't you?"
"How can you tell if someone is in love with you?"
"A person's whole being changes. You will see, when the time comes."
"I will make him love me."
Mrs. Hulter laughed. "I would think that quite difficult. In any event, he is too much a gentleman to take you as a lover, being both older and having been trusted with your safety. But as your guardian or friend, he is a powerful ally to have."
Alison was not ready to settle for that, even if she might suspect it was the truth. Instead, she changed the subject. Slightly.
"I have seen that look you were talking about," said Alison. "If that is love. There is a lieutenant in New York. He tries to be mean to me, but I know he doesn't mean it. He's only seventeen, and already he is a lieutenant."
"Perhaps you should turn your sights on him," said Mrs. Hulter, rising from the bed. "Come, let's find you something to wear."
Alison pushed away the coverlet and followed her hostess to the next room. She was completely without clothes, yet felt no more shame than Eve before the Fall.
"This chemise is practically new." Mrs. Hulter withdrew a light linen shift bordered with fancy lace from the oaken wardrobe that dominated the small room. Alison stroked the lace, as if it were some precious metal she had never seen.
Mrs. Hulter next produced a jumper that had belonged to a niece. This lightly boned corset, not nearly as restricting as the elaborate metal affairs preferred by city ladies, nonetheless would be sufficient to leave little doubt as to Alison's sex — or beauty. Mrs. Hulter then brought out a light blue dress so expertly woven from homespun flax that it seemed like fine silk.
"I don't want to wear a dress. I want to serve our cause," said Alison, handing the chemise back.
"And so you will, no matter what you wear. This is a patriotic dress. It was woven in defiance of the king's ban on weaving. Women declared their independence first in this land. Men may boast, but it is women who take the risks and act first, protecting our homes and our rights. You will learn that as you grow older."
"I have already seen it," said Alison. She studied the dress a moment. "Do you think it will look attractive?"
"I think you would look as pretty as a butterfly in it."
Whether it was Mrs. Hulter's appeal to patriotism or her soft, reassuring manner, Alison finally submitted, allowing herself to be made up in a way she had scarce imagined possible. The bold patriot who had risked her life to save Jake and clamored continuously to help General Washington had not been banished; on the contrary, defiance shone all the brighter in her eye. Yet it had been magnified by a physical beauty that previously had been severely disguised.
"Your hair is our final problem," said Mrs. Hulter, stepping back. "It has a natural beauty to it, but it will be months before it grows long enough to curl. A wig would be too fussy — ah, I know just the thing."
