Quintessence

by David Walton

  "You send enigmatic messages," Parris said. "I received your gift, but I still don't know why you're here."

  "A proposition," Sinclair said. His voice was deep and bold. "One you are uniquely suited to appreciate."

  Henshawe took Sinclair's cloak, but Sinclair insisted on keeping his walking stick, a heavy staff of black wood, carved roughly and not very skillfully into the form of a snake.

  They sat near the fire on oaken armchairs, a carved table between them on which the servants had provided a variety of cheeses and small Moroccan sweets. A triangle of morning light shone through the red damask curtains, making the room feel bright and cheerful.

  "I want to interest you in an expedition," Sinclair said, "to Chelsey's island."

  Parris barked a laugh. "Come, now," he said. "Voyages to the west have hardly been a sound financial investment."

  "Bad luck," Sinclair said, shrugging. "There's plenty of gold and spice to be had at the edge of the world. But that's not, I think, where your interests lie."

  His bright eyes danced, and Parris wondered how much he knew. It was from Sinclair's boat, after all, that Felbrigg had stolen the corpse.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Chelsey's island holds more wonders than you can dream of. Lead transmuted to gold, iron made as light as balsa wood, paper impenetrable, walls invisible. Sickness healed. Death defeated."

  "How do you know all this? From Chelsey? The ravings of a madman?"

  "Did you not open the box?"

  "I did, but—"

  Sinclair clapped his hands. "Give it to me."

  Irked by this patronizing gesture, Parris took the pale box from his pocket and handed it over without a word. Sinclair opened it a crack and peered inside. The eyes that met Parris's over the lid were dark.

  "Where is it?"

  "It flew away." Parris dared not say it flew through a solid wall; he assumed Sinclair knew this and had sent it to him for that reason, but if not, he didn't want to look like an idiot. Besides, the more time passed, the more he'd been able to convince himself the whole thing was a trick of his mind. It had been dark, after all, and he'd been exhausted, his mind strained by worry.

  Sinclair slammed the box on the table. "What were you playing at? Do you think I keep dozens of mystery beetles in my pockets?"

  "How was I to know what was in there?"

  "You could have taken better care."

  Parris wasn't in the mood to be lectured about his care of a beetle. "I should have killed it."

  Sinclair gave a slow laugh, made more sinister by the scar across his mouth. "You should have tried," he said. "Then you would know more than you do now."

  "Master Sinclair!" a musical voice called from above. Behind them, an open stairway led to the second floor, and at the top stood Catherine, beaming. "I thought it was you," she said. She ran lightly down the stairs and swept into the room, her blond hair loose and falling about her face.

  CATHERINE felt alive for the first time in months. Peter's death had loomed over everything for so long, she almost didn't remember what it was like to think and talk normally. It wasn't Thomas Hungate's sweet whisperings at the ball that made her feel that way, either, no matter what Mother might think. She had enjoyed the attention, but Thomas was ultimately as dreary as all the other young men at court, even if he was heir to a baronetcy.

  No, what had woken her excitement was Christopher Sinclair. Master Sinclair's magic at the ball had made her forget, if only for an instant, the dread that had been with her so long, like a rock stuck halfway down her throat that couldn't be dislodged. He had made her feel again the enthusiasm for the future that had seemed so easy when her brother was alive and so impossible when he was gone. And now here he was, actually in their home, talking with Father in the parlor.

  "Are you trying to convince Father to come on your expedition?" she asked him.

  Sinclair smiled at her indulgently. "And will you not come, too, my dear?"

  She laughed. "What would you have me do on a remote island?"

  "I would have you inspire us with your beauty."

  Catherine bowed her head, pretending modesty, but she was delighted at the praise, all the more so because it would irritate Father. He didn't approve of such banter, at least not where she was involved. She didn't care. Father rarely talked to her anymore except to forbid her to do things. He was fanatic about keeping her safe— whatever that meant. Probably because of Peter, though he never said so.

  No one ever spoke of Peter. It was a forbidden subject, like Father's medical experiments, like Mother's secret Catholicism. He was in every argument, in every awkward silence, sitting at his empty place at the supper table, more obvious than when he'd been alive, yet never mentioned. Sometimes it made her want to scream.

  It had been Peter who understood her love of forbidden topics, the worlds of politics and theology and science that were only allowed to men. He answered questions her tutors thought indecorous for a lady to ask, and taught her things she wasn't supposed to know. Master Sinclair, in subtle ways, reminded her of Peter— he didn't care much about propriety, either.

  "If I came, would you teach me how to perform your miracles?" she said.

  "You can perform one right now, if you like." Sinclair lifted his walking stick from the side of his chair and handed it to her. She gasped and took a step back. Father looked from one to the other of them suspiciously.

  "Take it, ma chérie," Sinclair said.

  "Will it . . . ?"

  "It's perfectly safe."

  She took the stick gingerly. It was solid wood, carved in simple lines. It didn't feel dangerous, but she had seen this trick before.

  "Set it down," Sinclair said. "Don't throw it or drop it; just place it on the floor."

  Catherine gently set it down. "Just what is happening here?" Father said, but as soon as she drew her hands away, he didn't need to ask. The stick, made of dead wood, transformed into a very real and living snake.

  Even though she knew what was coming, Catherine gave a shriek and jumped back. She had touched the stick; there was no way it had been a snake held stiff by paralysis or in some kind of trance. It had been wood, not flesh. But now . . .

  The black snake glided across the floor, its movement so smooth that it seemed to grow longer at the head and shorter at the tail. After a moment, Master Sinclair sprang across the room and snatched the snake, not by the tail as in the Moses story, but by the head. It hung limply from his hand, and Catherine couldn't see that anything had changed until he tapped it on the floor, and it was hard and unyielding again.

  "How do you do it?" she said.

  "Me?" Sinclair said. "You're the magician today. I had nothing to do with it."

  "It's from the island," Father said. "Just like the beetle." He took the stick from Sinclair and turned it over in his hands. "Incredible. Is the snake alive in there, inside the wood?"

  "I believe the snake is the wood. Where else would the wood come from?" Sinclair said.

  "But wood is dead, and the snake is alive. That would mean it dies and comes back to life each time it changes."

  "Unless its outer flesh hardens and then relaxes while it remains a snake inside," Sinclair said.

  "But it's not even warm," Father said.

  "Does it weigh the same before and after the change? Have you measured it?" Catherine asked.

  Both men looked at her. Father seemed surprised to hear her speak, but Sinclair's eyes were merry. "As a snake, it weighs almost twice what it does as a stick."

  "It isn't a trick, is it?" she said. "This snake turns into wood and back in the wild."

  Sinclair swept her another bow. "Parris, your daughter is sharper than most men. You have it right: I'm a charlatan."

  "So it's not a miracle at all. It's just what the snake does."

  "Not at all," Father said.

  "Exactly right," Sinclair said at the same time.

  Father glared at him. "A miracle is something that violates th
e natural order of the world, as this creature clearly does."

  "Not so. This snake is as natural as a fox or a hare. Just as a hare will prick its ears and bolt for a hole to escape danger, so this snake transforms into a harmless stick when it feels threatened."

  "But it's not possible. Flesh doesn't change into wood."

  "Clearly it is possible."

  "Not according to the rules of nature."

  "Maybe the rules of nature are different than you think."

  Mother appeared in the doorway. "Catherine Parris, what do you think you're about?"

  Catherine felt heat rush to her cheeks. Trust Mother to come in just as things were getting interesting.

  "Your daughter is charming," Sinclair said. "She has been delighting us with her company."

  "Thank you," Mother said, "but she's too old to be seen in polite society with her hair down. Catherine, go back upstairs and get Blanche to dress you in a proper gown and arrange your hood."

  "I'm only talking," she said. "Master Sinclair doesn't mind."

  "Just because he's too polite to point out your unseemly behavior doesn't mean you should persist in it." She pointed at the stairs.

  Catherine didn't move. "Master Sinclair is taking an expedition to Lord Chelsey's island. He invited me to come along."

  Mother's stern gaze snapped to Sinclair, though the polite smile never left her face. "Ah, the life of a woman in a colony," she said. "Living in a wooden shanty, working your hands to calluses, never enough to eat. Exotic, isn't it?"

  "Lady Parris—" Sinclair said.

  "I thank you not to fill my daughter's head with foolish fancies. Catherine, the men don't need you here, and certainly not dressed like that. Upstairs. At once."

  Catherine trudged up the stairs, obedient. It was almost as if Mother purposely denied her any small plea sure that might distract her from her grief. Mother didn't want her to learn about medicine, or read about politics, or even see certain parts of London.

  "What you want," Mother had told her once, "is to be a man. You want to be independent and educated, to fight battles and achieve great things. Every woman wants that at some point in her life. But it will only bring you grief. Men will not permit it. You can influence and seduce and manipulate a man, but you can't claim his place, or he'll destroy you. Put these things out of your mind."

  But Catherine couldn't put them out of her mind. She wanted to make her own choices, follow her own inclinations, determine her own future. Father decided everything about her life, from the clothes she wore to the interests she was permitted to pursue. When she married, it would be the same, only her husband would be in command.

  Not that she had any real prospects. The only young man of her acquaintance whose conversation had any real substance to it was Matthew Marcheford, the bishop's son, but he hardly counted. He was going to be a clergyman, like his father. She could never marry a clergyman.

  She flushed, thinking of the things Thomas Hungate had said to her in the garden, before Mother had discovered them. He'd promised a cathedral wedding, a honeymoon in Venice, a house in the country. It wasn't like she believed him. The conversations at balls were all fluff and gossip, the dances monotonous, and the boys dull. But his sweet whispers had made her heart beat faster and her face grow hot. She couldn't imagine Matthew Marcheford ever saying things like that.

  At the top of the stairs, she paused. Mother had already left the room, and the men weren't looking at her. Catherine sat, concealing herself behind the banister, and peeked down between the rails.

  PARRIS was still trying to wrap his mind around the snake- turned- walking- stick when Sinclair pulled a box of pale wood out of his pocket. Parris recognized it as a twin of the one the African had delivered to him that morning. Sinclair opened it, and there was the beetle.

  "You found it again," Parris said. "How could you possibly—"

  "I didn't. This is another, and the only one I have left. Pray do not lose it again."

  Sinclair crossed the room and set the box on its side on a heavy oak table. The beetle crawled out of the box and along the surface of the table. Sinclair placed a book on end in front of it. It crawled right through.

  When Parris didn't react, Sinclair smiled. "Good," he said. "Now, how about this?"

  He held a stack of books over the beetle and dropped them with a thump, raising a puff of dust. The beetle walked out unscathed, then walked through an inkwell without a pause. Next, Sinclair set a carafe of water in front of it. It walked through the glass, appeared in the water, swimming, and emerged through the opposite side. Parris stalked the beetle down the length of the table, watching it pass through everything in its way. At the far end, he laid his hand on the table so the beetle could clamber onto his palm, but instead it walked straight through. He didn't feel so much as a tickle.

  "Why don't you show this to the king?" Parris said.

  "You should know the answer to that."

  Parris did know. King Edward wouldn't see the wonder in a mystery like this any more than he saw it in a dissected human body. "Black magic," he said.

  "There's a fine line between wonder and witchcraft, but this is definitely over it." Sinclair scooped the beetle up in the box and snapped it shut.

  "That box— the beetle can't escape through it?"

  Sinclair kissed it. "Chelsey brought thirty different species of animals home with him: beasts like monkeys, beasts like birds, beasts like nothing any man has ever seen before. The snake and the beetle I have. All the rest are missing. Dead, perhaps, or transformed into sand with the rest. Not so much as a skeleton left to tell their tale."

  Parris fell back into a chair, feeling dazed. He had no explanation for an insect that defied the substance of matter. An insect that defied death itself. An insect that, hard as it was to believe, implied that everything the Mad Admiral had claimed about this island might actually be true.

  "A miracle," he said.

  "No miracle. There are reasons for everything."

  "Surely some things are decreed by God to be as they are."

  "And what if they're not?" Sinclair's eyes were fever- bright. "What if

  everything in the universe is not guided by some unseen hand, but instead acts according to natural rules that never change?"

  Parris was astonished. "You're a Copernican."

  "Copernicus proved that the earth is flat, not round like the Greeks would have had us believe. He showed us the rules that govern the sun and the stars. He gave us their reasons."

  "But he's been denounced. By Martin Luther and the Pope."

  "If the world was created by a rational God, why should we be surprised to find it governed by rational rules? Copernicus wasn't content to know that the sun dissolved each night at the western edge of the earth and re- formed each morning in the east; he asked how it did so. And why."

  "We already knew why. God re- creates it daily with his power."

  "Yes, yes, but why? Why do fermented wine and soda ash bubble when mixed? Why are seashells found embedded in rocks in the high mountains of Tuscany? How does a blind seed buried in darkness know which way to grow to find the light?"

  "The answers are the same. God directs them."

  "Yet there are rules. This island of Chelsey's is no different. The man who understands its rules gains its power. For instance"— Sinclair rattled the box—"why doesn't my friend here crawl right out of his prison? Because the box is made of wood from the island. Wood from a tree the beetle lives in and from which it eats leaves."

  "How could you know that? From Chelsey?"

  "I know it eats leaves because that's what I've been feeding it. As for the rest: simple logic. A beetle can't take off from the ground; it must climb to a height in order to fly. If this beetle always passed through everything, it couldn't climb, and thus it couldn't get high enough to fly or find its food or hide from its predators."

  "Predators? What could eat such a thing?"

  Sinclair smiled. "A bird with tricks of
its own."

  "But it doesn't fall through my table," Parris objected. "My table wasn't made with wood from Chelsey's island."

  "Now you're asking the right questions. Just what can and can't this creature pass through?"

  Despite himself, Parris found himself growing excited. For the next half hour, they set the beetle to walk on every material they could find in the house: glass, cotton, paper, oak, yew, beech, tallow, straw, iron, brass, wax, porcelain, silk, earth. Parris wrote down their findings in the precise hand he used to record observations about the body when dissecting. By the end, they had discovered several things: