by Tom Doyle
* * *
In his agony at the shrine, Dale had only one comfort: the revenants were not killing him outright. Their binding must block that, or they’d do it all the time.
The spirits whirled around him as if driven by cyclones, though every physical object was motionless. They were forcing their thoughts into him. For all their intensity, images of the emperor and empire didn’t find much purchase. But their love for the land, the nation, the people, were so akin to his own that it took all he had not to sink into confusion, and from there into a new, alien certainty.
Mind buckling, Dale counted his few resources. He had his craft, but in a contest of sheer power, he was a fly against a windshield. He had words, but nothing with which to bargain, perhaps not even a recognized status.
He tried bargaining anyway. He yelled above the howling: “I am a guest here!”
The shrine quieted long enough to reply. “You are mortal, and not of our kind. Be silent, and submit.”
“Why are you doing this?” But the shrine wouldn’t speak again to him, and the howling rose.
So much for the rights of guests. Dale’s thoughts blew away in the spiritual wind, or shattered like glass in the shrine’s whining keen. He needed help, but the only aid that could reach him quickly enough through space and time would be his Morton dead.
Dale’s blood lay pooled on the ground, frozen immobile like everything else, but available to help his call to the departed. He wouldn’t summon the Left Hand here to contact this awesome power; Dale would rather die. So, he went down his orthodox list in chronological order. “Dad, a little help?” “Grandpa, can you hear me?” Then, with desperation, “Captain Richard Morton, please report for duty.”
No response but the continuing keen of the shrine. Dick Morton was Dale’s great-grandfather. Great-Grandpa had been a good man, a great man, but he was not one of the friendly ancestors. Bumping heads against the old British mages, he’d had the audacity to challenge their weather ability on the eve of D-day, and won. Then, he had joined up with Third Army as Patton’s own wise guy, and he’d nearly died during the winter of ’44–45 in the final takedown of the Teutonic Knights. He had visited Japan during the occupation before he’d been killed in Korea defending the retreat to Pusan. His son, Grandpa, still shuddered to think of him. When Dale was a kid, he’d thought Grandpa, in the flesh or spirit, seemed fearsome. Great-Grandpa still seemed that way.
It had been too much to hope he’d come. Dale tried to think of another ancestor who was sufficiently recent and powerful enough to act for him. But he couldn’t think another thought, could not speak another word. Dale’s head felt like it would both split open and implode as the shrine’s spirits whirled faster.
Then complete stillness.
The stillness was a harbinger. In an instant, Dale was face-to-face with Richard Morton’s ghost, ready for service in World War II fatigues; the man who in life had calmed any storm.
The old revenant glared hard at Dale. “You,” he spat, not hiding his contempt, though Dale wasn’t sure what he’d ever done to deserve it. “Can’t handle anything by yourself, can you?”
“Not this, sir.”
As if finally deigning to give the shrine some of his attention, Great-Grandpa nodded over his shoulder. “What is this, some kind of doomsday machine?”
“Yes, sir.” Only then did Dale realize the strangeness of being able to think and speak again. A small miracle—the force of the shrine spirits had lightened up on him and played over Great-Grandpa’s outline like dark flame.
“By what right do you come here?” said the shrine.
“I’m here under the authority granted by the Showa Emperor himself.” He cited the relevant treaties, known and secret, chapter and verse, dating back to the surrender and occupation. Dale had forgotten this aspect of his ancestor. “And I am one of your kind.” The dead.
“You may speak.”
Great-Grandpa turned again to Dale. “Well, soldier, what do you have to ask that was important enough to risk the Morton line and perhaps the entire world for?”
The words slapped Dale down, but it was far too late to undo the risks he had taken. The only way out was forward. “Ask them what my father was looking for.”
Great-Grandpa seemed all the more disgusted that this madness was genetic. But he asked.
The spirits whirled clockwise, then counterclockwise. “When your father asked his questions, we did not see the danger. We see it now.”
More dangerous than you? thought Dale. “Tell them that the truly dangerous didn’t want anyone to know about my father’s quest.”
“We take the long view,” said the shrine. A very creepy echo of his father’s words.
“You’re getting nowhere,” said Great-Grandpa.
“Suggestions?”
“You’ve put nothing on the table. Treat this as a negotiation. What do you have that they’d want?”
It was true. The shrine seemed hungry, craving something besides more souls. Had his father failed because he didn’t have what they wanted? What did he have that his father hadn’t? Then he knew—not what, but who.
“I know someone who can free any who want to leave here,” said Dale. “My wife. Tell them.”
The howl of the shrine went quiet. Then, what had been a unified voice broke into schizophrenic civil war. “We are bound forever.” “No gaijin could free us.” “Strike now, venture all.”
Dale asked, “Do you sense any deceit?”
The spirits grew still and quite. “If she can do so, send for her. Have her do it now.”
No good to lie to them. “It’ll be a few days, maybe weeks.”
“Then you’ll stay until she comes for you!”
Dale’s mind would be long gone in another objective minute. He struggled with what to say, what he could offer. But the howling was rising, rising …
A voice in the storm. Dale wasn’t sure he understood. “What did you say?” asked the shrine.
“I’ll be your hostage,” said Great-Grandpa.
“No,” said Dale.
“No what, soldier?” said Great-Grandpa, bringing all his intimidation to bear on Dale.
Not this time. “No, Captain. I don’t enjoy pulling rank, but as a major, I’m ordering you not to stay here.”
Great-Grandpa smiled and laughed. It was a terrifying thing. “Try to stop me, Major.” Then he winked at Dale. “Though you’ve got brass cojones, I’ll give you that.”
“They’ll crush you.”
“They’ll try.”
“Wait. At least make them answer me first.”
So Great-Grandpa posed Dale’s question again. In the voice of a million tombs, the shrine replied, “Your father asked where magic comes from.”
“What?” If it wasn’t so tragic, Dale would’ve laughed. Like a little craft baby, wondering why the sky was blue. “What did you tell him?”
“Most of it comes from the land or people’s need. He knew that. But a very small portion of power leaks in from elsewhere.”
Oh oh. Dale had an idea of what that might mean. “Where?”
“There are worlds where things like us are all that remain.”
The old terrible gods of the Left Hand? Perhaps. “And how does the power get here?”
“Like calls to like.”
“You’re in touch with these worlds?”
“That is all we told your father. Our deal is complete. Go.”
“No, one other thing. Where did he go next?”
But this time, Great-Grandpa didn’t echo him. “They aren’t listening anymore. Some of them are getting very impatient with you. And some don’t want you to keep your promise. You need to leave.”
“But where do I go?”
“Anywhere but here. Go.” Great-Grandpa smiled ironically. “Don’t be too long.”
Dale tried to turn away, and nearly tumbled to the ground as his body moved again in ordinary time. A crowd of visiting school kids were filing toward the museu
m. He couldn’t see his great-grandfather anymore.
Think. Dale’s father had gone on from here. Where? Like his father, Dale had only the thinnest of trails to follow. But Dad would have also seen the possible connection to the Left-Hand gods. Dale knew a trail that might lead to them. It would be an evil road, so despite his sense of urgency, he was glad that he had to call Scherie first, and bring her here to free these spirits and his great-grandfather’s ghost. Even though Great-Grandpa was dead, Dale wouldn’t leave Family here for anything.
Screw protocol. Back home and in Europe, it was yesterday evening. As he walked away from the shrine, he dialed Scherie’s number. No answer. He dialed Endicott’s number. No answer. Then, with growing unease and despite wishing to remain off their radar, he dialed H-ring.
They told him the news and the last known locations. He didn’t ask for more details or question the delay. He ran. Hold on, Scherie, my love. Hold on, Endicott, you asshole. Wait for me, Roderick. I’m coming.
PART III
TINKER, TAILOR, SOLDIER, MAGE
I believed thou wert greater than Merlin; and truly in magic thou art. But prophecy is greater than magic.
—Mark Twain
If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key.
—William Shakespeare
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England’s green & pleasant Land.
—William Blake
O Lord our God arise,
Scatter her enemies,
And make them fall:
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix:
God save us all.
—“God Save the Queen”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The Don’s house felt like the House of Morton when I first entered it: sentient, hostile, and upset. In the hall was another Morton touch: an antique clock ticked, and ticked. It was unclear whether we had woken the Don up. Either he didn’t have much farsight or forewarning, or he didn’t want to show that he had them.
Farsight, and a sentient house. Maybe that was why Grace hadn’t worried about bringing us here. Farsight had trouble peeking into these old Family houses.
Grace. He was calling her Grace, so I’d started thinking of her that way. Not very professional, but probably inevitable.
We sat in his den, Grace and I in chairs facing his. The remnants of a real wood fire were still red in the fireplace. Without the contemporary courtesy of asking, the Don lit his pipe and began to smoke. The pipe triggered my memory of him from his file in H-ring. This was the last scion of House Dee, Christopher. His file photo was out-of-date (he was naturally publicity shy), but he seemed to have reached old age early in trade for being unchanged for years. His true age was subject to dispute. Some said he’d fought in the Second World War, but he didn’t seem that old to me.
On the mantel was a photo of his dead wife. Odd that they let him, the last practicing descendant of John Dee, get through life without begetting children.
As I sat, the old man made a lazy gesture with his hand, and I noticed a tea service laid out on the table to Grace’s left. Perhaps he had expected us. “Please, you’ve had a long evening in the weather. Have something warm to drink. I would offer you both some brandy, but…”
“Tea will do nicely, sir, thank you,” said Grace.
I agreed. “Thank you, sir.” As I watched Grace pour, I wondered again about her cross necklace. Did she avoid strong drink on moral principle, or was she merely concerned with remaining alert?
Now that I was looking for it, the evidence that the old man was of the Dee Family was everywhere. The Dee coat of arms was painted above the mantel, which I recognized from its motto, “Hic Labor”—“This is the hard task.”
In the 1580s, the other court mages of Queen Elizabeth pressured the first well-known practitioner in the line, John Dee, into exile. But when Dee heard of the gathering of the Spanish Armada, he covertly left Bohemia for the coast of France, eluding the agents of France’s House of Guise. There, Dee participated in a great working with the weathermen of England against the Spanish fleet, summoning the winds that first delayed the Armada, then disadvantaged its ships in the sea fights, and finally destroyed it.
Like any good Puritan descendant, I thought Dee and his colleagues were heroes. Even if the Dee Family’s beliefs differed from ours, John Dee had helped to create the great “Protestant Wind” that had changed history, and had allowed United States history to happen.
With a calm, benevolent aspect, Dee waited for us to begin. “Sir,” said Grace, “we have another mole problem.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to root out this viper. The last case nearly finished me, and I would hate to expire with an investigation still open.”
“No, sir, this won’t be your operation. But some of our own have been attempting to kill the major, and for a short while I need help protecting him. I would also appreciate your insights as to who might be behind this.”
“You are safe from any pursuit here,” said the Don, turning his head to address me. “When the Magic Circus was compromised, they still could not see within here, and no small number can enter against the will of the House.” His words reminded me too much of the House of Morton to be completely reassuring.
After Grace outlined the events of the day, she and the Don began to speculate on the treason within MI13, but they used internal cryptonyms and jargon, so I couldn’t follow, and it was clear they didn’t want me to. The Don’s voice had the lullaby quality of lecturing professors everywhere.
Instead of listening, I exercised my broader curiosity and situational awareness. The polished wooden bookcases against the walls held the works I might have expected to see. A couple of shelves held the local Oxford eavesdroppers and spiritual veterans: Roger Bacon, Lewis Carroll, Charles Williams, Tolkien, Lewis. A hand-bound version of Spencer’s Faerie Queen was next to a DVD box set of The Prisoner. Other than an annotated Macbeth, the Don had no Shakespeare in this room—the Bard’s views of the craft were, at best, theatrical. Pride of prominent place went to the great cautionary tales on the perils of the pursuit of the Left-Hand way: Shelley, Stoker, Wilde, Tolkien again. Dracula, Frankenstein, Dorian Gray, and the “Akallabêth” section of The Silmarillion were not meant so literally as Poe’s tale of Roderick and Madeline, but they were sharper on the critical moral points. Left-Hand craft would destroy your soul, your loved ones, and eventually, like a viral plague, your whole nation. These shelves constituted a road map of the English spiritual world, for those with the eyes to see.
Only a few non-literary objects were on display, the most important being a bust of Richard III, the tragic hero of English practitioners. On a side table, a chessboard had a few pieces moved in an opening of a game.
My eyes blurred. I was very, very tired. To doze by the fire would be marvelous. We could all doze together.
But even as my thoughts began to dissolve into dream-like non sequiturs, a noise, light as a draft through a keyhole, whispered into my ear. No. No. No. Each “o” lasted a whole breath, a low moan of hate and perhaps fear. The House of Dee’s focus was now upon me, and it would not let me rest.
Typical. Sentient houses seemed to take a while to warm up to me. I sat up, paying greater attention. Only a few minutes had passed, but time felt precious.
The Don noticed my renewed focus. “Would you like to report home, Major? My phone or computer is at your service.” He pointed at a black landline phone. His timing was (unsurprisingly) uncanny. I very much wanted to report home, but all indications were that the local spiritual service was compromised, and therefore national signal intelligence could be directed against me. If I used my phone, I didn’t think they would be able to decrypt what I was saying in a timely way, but they might find me. I could use the Don’s phone
or computer, but that involved a level of trust I didn’t yet feel, even though the Don’s manner was easy and charming, and he was the first person in this country who seemed happy to see me.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, “but no. I think we should discuss my next move.” Away from here.
“Agreed. Grace, dear, we’ve forgotten our guest. We can speculate about our housecleaning later.” He chuckled, as if suddenly thinking of something. “Your willingness to help him is noble, a true beau geste given his family background.”
“My duty, sir,” she said, not amused at all. Dear Lord, what had my ancestors done now?
“Oh, I’m certain you’ve exceeded your duty here,” said the Don.
“Excuse me,” I asked, “are you talking about Abram?” If so, they had taken his sins rather personally. But the House was flaring in anger—did it dislike my ancestors too?
“No, not Abram,” said the Don. “Stephen Endicott.”
“Oh, him,” I said. The Mortons used to bring Stephen up as a reminder that not all evil was explicitly Left-Hand.
“So,” said Dee, rubbing his hands together like an eager grandfather, “here we have one of those historical ironies so common in our vocation. One of you is the descendant of men who made their fortunes trading other men as chattel. The other, a descendant of the enslaved, and more—a descendant of Tory craftspeople who left your unfree Republic. When given the choice, those craftspeople fought for their British liberators and followed us home after our defeat at your hands.”
Huh. This was a different, less friendly tack by the Don. Yes, it was true: Endicott money had been in the slave trade, and if there was one great sinner in my lineage before the revelation about Abram, it was Stephen, who had conducted the trade personally. But did he have to highlight this for Grace?
I glanced at Grace, wondering how seriously she took this family history. She was nodding in grim agreement. Great, another family with a long-standing vendetta against the Endicotts. I wanted to argue, to talk about my family’s penance, but then I realized we still hadn’t gotten around to discussing my departure, and we had more serious problems than whether Grace liked me as a person. Or at least my brain was insisting on those priorities.
