The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  After breakfast, Balthazar calls us into the parlor, where a fire is burning in the grate. He eyes each of us in turn. What is he doing? I wonder. It seems like forever before he finally speaks. “Now that the three of you are here,” he begins, “I want you to hear a tale.”

  Emily and Gabriel sit cross-legged by the fire, as if it is story time. I take a seat, and with the sound of a crackling fire as accompaniment, Balthazar begins his story.

  “Many years ago, here in London lived a man named Malachai Grimstead. He had a brilliant and clever mind and was known in the scientific and medical communities of the day as a keen scholar. Indeed, he was a friend, and we often spent hours discussing the merits of science and philosophy.”

  “Did he know you was a faerie?” Emily asks. The heat from the fire on her face has turned her cheeks as red as apples.

  “He did not, Emily. He was a man of science and intellect. It would have been too fantastical a story for him, and I did not want to explain or prove the existence of my kind to anyone.”

  He says this rather fiercely, and his eyes take on a sudden gleam.

  “As the years passed, our friendship waned, for Malachai began to delve into subjects I found … revolting.”

  He pauses, as if waiting.

  “What subjects?” I finally ask.

  Balthazar leans forward in his chair and lowers his voice, as if relishing the horror of his tale. “The dead.”

  There is a moment of silence.

  “Malachai believed that mankind did not live up to its fullest potential. He wanted to conquer death, to travel planes of existence that no man or woman had imagined. So from that day on, he began to take an obscene interest in the dead. He even hired resurrection men to do his dirty work.”

  “Resurrection men?” I ask.

  Balthazar frowns with disapproval. “Grave robbers.”

  I feel as if I may faint.

  “Soon, word spread of his nefarious activities. He was dismissed by the many societies that once looked to him for his curious mind and medical knowledge, and he retreated into the shadows.”

  Another pause. Balthazar sighs. “Malachai became … obsessed with the idea of bringing the dead back to life. He found others who shared his views, and together they traveled a path that led to death and despair. They called themselves Mephisto, a variation of the word ‘Mephistopheles.’”

  “The devil,” Gabriel hisses.

  “Yes, Gabriel. A demon from an old German legend called Faust, about a man who makes a pact with the devil.”

  “Did these people succeed?” Gabriel asks. His voice is deep and sounds strange coming from such a slight child. “In bringing back the dead?”

  “They did. But what they brought back contained only a glimmer of human life. They were ghouls, undead creatures who exist only to do the bidding of their masters.”

  My stomach turns. This is ghastly, and I wonder once more if I should have returned home with Mother, but Balthazar continues, and I am swept back into the tale.

  “The deeper Malachai delved, the more insane he became. He used these ghouls to capture human hosts for his experiments, and woe to the poor souls who fell into his trap.

  “When bodies started showing up in the Thames—​the discarded refuse of his vile work—​the League of Ravens had no choice but to act. Malachai was killed, along with several of his followers.” Balthazar looks at me. “It was Jessamine’s father, Alexander Grace, who delivered the fatal blow.”

  Emily looks at me and smiles. I am taken aback, for this deed of Father’s, albeit necessary, does not seem to be something to revel in.

  Balthazar leans back in his chair and blows out a breath. “That was several years ago. But now, out of the shadows they have come again. They have made themselves known to Miss Jessamine and her mother.”

  “How?” Emily asks.

  “They sent a message on a spirit slate, a tool to contact the dead.”

  “What was it?” Gabriel asks.

  Balthazar looks to me. I swallow and, not for the last time, I am sure, repeat the strange words. “‘Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!’”

  Emily screws up her face.

  “Signed with the letter M,” Balthazar adds, “as a dire warning.”

  He rises from his chair. “You were each chosen because you possess a special gift. One that can help destroy this menace. Beginning today, we must prepare. But first, Miss Jessamine, if you will stand, please.”

  I do as he bids. Gabriel and Emily stand also, and Gabriel draws the curtains shut.

  Odd, that.

  The room darkens but for the faint light that seeps through the curtains. Balthazar lights a candelabra with a match. Emily and Gabriel stand on either side of him. Everyone looks somber. “What is happening?” I ask.

  But no one answers.

  Balthazar walks to the corner of the room and picks up a long, wooden staff. A gleaming metal point shines at its tip. I hadn’t even noticed it before—​or perhaps I had mistaken it for a broom, which, judging from the dust on the floor, this room could certainly use. He walks back over and stands between Emily and Gabriel. They are all facing me, as if I am about to be questioned. What is this about?

  Balthazar takes a step forward, so he is only a foot away. I feel sweat on my back. It is unseemly for a lady to sweat, I hear Mother’s voice remind me.

  “We are known as the League of Ravens,” he announces, “named for Brân the Blessed, once king of Britain and protector of the realm.”

  My ears prick up. Although I did not finish my schooling, I certainly learned all of the British kings. Yet the name is unfamiliar. “Brân the Blessed? I have never heard of such a man.”

  “It is from the old Welsh tales,” Balthazar replies, “the Mabinogion, in particular, which is now lost in history. Brân means ‘raven’ in the old tongue, and it is from him that we draw our strength.”

  I nod, enthralled.

  “Since our order was formed, we have all sworn an oath to uphold its secrets. Now this duty falls upon you, Miss Jessamine.”

  He takes a step closer. A scent of deep woods and fallen leaves surrounds him, something I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Jessamine Grace. Do you come here of your own free will, being of sound mind?”

  I take a breath. “I do.”

  “And do you swear to use your gift for the good of mankind and strike down evil at any cost, even at risk to your own life?”

  My legs quake.

  “I do.”

  “Furthermore, will you hold the practices of this order in confidence and not betray its members, secrets, or powers to any dark force that may exist in this world?”

  “I will,” I say.

  Balthazar raises the spear to my throat so quickly, I gasp. “Swear to me now, child.” His face is stern, and his eyes gleam with a fierce light.

  “I swear,” I finish.

  Balthazar drops the staff to his side. “Jessamine Grace, daughter of Alexander and Cora, welcome to the League of Ravens.” He raises one hand in front of my face and makes an intricate motion in the air.

  A shock runs through my body.

  I see a silver ship with a billowing sail, rocking gently on the sea …

  A white raven pecking at a ravished corpse on a hillside.

  Creatures with ghoulish faces burned by fire.

  And a giant of a man, swinging a shining sword above his head.

  As quickly as it comes, the vision is over. I shake my head, disoriented.

  “They are glimpses of our past,” Balthazar explains. “Something you will now carry forever. In times of great peril, you will never be alone.”

  He steps back two paces. “All hail!” he proclaims, and bangs the staff to the floor three times, sending a shudder down my spine.

  The serious faces from a moment ago are now all smiles. Balthazar reaches out and takes my hand. “Welcome to the order, Jess.”

  Jess. It is the
first time he has used my pet name.

  “Thank you,” I say, surprised, still reeling from the vision. “I’m honored.”

  “I am glad you are with us,” Gabriel says. His words are a comfort, but his eyes are dark. He looks weary beyond his years. Will this happen to me, also?

  Emily grasps my hand. Her touch is so light, I almost don’t feel it. “We’re best mates now. Yeah?”

  I smile, and feel a tickle at my throat. I touch it, and when I draw my hand away, a smear of blood darkens my fingertip.

  Emily looks at me and shrugs. “Just a scratch,” she says.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Power Revealed

  I am now a member of the League of Ravens.

  I swore to it. Upon penalty of death.

  I feel a bond with Mother and Father that I have never known before. They went through this same initiation. How I wish to ask Mother what she felt at the time. What did she think? Was she frightened? What adventures did she and Father share?

  I will write to her soon, I promise myself, for there is so much more I want to know.

  Over the next several days, Balthazar teaches me how to use the lash. We are in the back garden, where a broken-down carriage sits. One of its wheels is cracked, and the spokes are either bent or missing. Brambles and vines run wild back here, looking as if they might rise up and strangle the entire house. The air is cool, but with my cloak and gloves, I am warm and flushed. Emily has lent me a few things to wear, but they are rather small and uncomfortable.

  “Grip the handle lightly,” Balthazar says for the second time. “Raise your arm above your head. Now strike!”

  I lash out at the dressmaker’s form that he has furnished for practice. I walk a few steps and peer at the damage. The spiked ends of the whip have torn the roughspun cloth, shredding it in places. I can’t imagine what it would do to a real body. And then it hits me: that is why I am doing this. The enemy we fight is real. This lash is meant to kill. Before I have a chance to obsess on this further, Balthazar congratulates me.

  “Better,” he says. “That’s better, Jess. You will find that the lash has a few tricks of its own, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When it is used in battle, it knows the touch of evil, and works to defeat it.”

  Good, I think. I’ll need all the help I can get.

  We work on my stance next, feet planted apart, eyes and ears alert.

  And then the most curious thing happens.

  Balthazar seems to be in several places at once, disappearing in an instant and then reappearing. I know he is not really disappearing, but within the blink of an eye, he is in front of me and then behind me. Now he is at my side.

  “Just a touch of glamour,” he says. “It will sharpen your senses.”

  “What is glamour?”

  “It is the art of illusion, something all of my race are gifted with.”

  He is now standing on my other side. I didn’t even see him move.

  “Try to strike,” he orders me. “Anticipate my movements.”

  I grip the handle of the lash as he appears several feet away. I strike out, but too late. Now he is behind me. I can sense him. I turn quickly, but my feet are swept out from under me. I’m falling, but before I hit the ground, I regain my balance, spin on my heel, and lash out with the whip, which tangles around Balthazar’s ankle.

  “There’s the spirit!” he encourages me. “Well done.”

  I snap the lash back and the thongs unfurl from his boot. I feel beads of sweat on my face. It is unseemly for a lady to sweat. Says who? I think, and turn quickly, lashing out at the dressmaker’s form again.

  Before I retire to bed, Balthazar calls me into the sitting room. He stands up as I enter and offers his hand as an invitation to sit, which I do, directly across from him. “A mesmerist’s power can be a strong force, Jessamine,” he begins. “The mysteries of one’s mind can be laid open and observed to great detriment.”

  I don’t answer, only nod. He crosses his legs at the knee. “I am curious about your gift and would like to try an experiment.”

  “Certainly,” I tell him.

  “You have to trust me, though,” he says slyly. “Do you trust me, Jess?”

  Quite frankly, I’m still not sure how I feel about Balthazar. Didn’t faeries steal young maidens in the stories—​never to be seen or heard from again?

  The thought is unsettling. But he is a friend of Mother’s and Father’s, I tell myself. He would not harm me. Except for the spear at my throat. “Yes,” I say, nonetheless. “I trust you.”

  He smiles and reaches inside his jacket. I tense for a moment, but he only withdraws a length of narrow black cloth. “I will bind this around your eyes so you cannot see. I will then ask you several questions. Does that meet with your approval?”

  I nod.

  He stands up and walks behind me, then places the cloth over my eyes and ties it at the back. Darkness. I hear his footsteps as he walks back to his side of the table. A match is struck. The acrid scent of sulfur fills my nostrils, then the waxy smell of tallow as a candle is lit.

  “Is it too tight?” he asks.

  I blink underneath the cloth. “No,” I answer.

  What is he up to?

  I hear a drawer sliding open and the clink and clatter of objects being placed on the table. “Jessamine,” he begins, “there are three things in front of you. I’m going to touch each one, and I want you to tell me what it is.”

  I nod and let out a breath. The woodsy smell that surrounds Balthazar is stronger now, as if being sightless makes my other senses more keen.

  “Now,” he says. “What am I touching?”

  I breathe in and sense something hard in my mind’s eye, like an impenetrable wall or an ominous standing stone.

  “A rock?” I venture.

  Balthazar doesn’t answer, only says, “And this?”

  Something soft and delicate, like a cloud or a pillow, appears in the darkness. I can almost feel it under my fingertips. “That’s a silk cloth.”

  “Does it have a color?”

  “Red,” I answer immediately.

  I realize I can almost sense Balthazar smiling. All I have to do is concentrate, and the pictures come to me.

  “And one more,” he urges.

  This one brings a strange sensation, as if I am being watched. It roams over me, and I feel exposed, as if something is looking into my very soul. “An … eye?” I guess, although I have no idea how that can be possible.

  Balthazar’s chair scrapes the floor, and I hear his footsteps as he comes to stand behind me again. He gently unties the knot of the blindfold and returns to his seat. I blink several times at the candlelight and then look at the objects on the table. There is a black stone—​that was the first object. The second is a small square of silk cloth with a pattern of red roses stitched into the fabric. I look down the length of the table again. “Where’s the other thing?” I ask. “The last one?”

  Balthazar taps a long finger at the corner of his eye. “That was my eye,” he says. “For I will always be watching.”

  I don’t know whether this is a reassuring thought or not.

  “Looking into another’s mind is an invasion,” he tells me, “and can be a dangerous journey. The seeker opens herself up and is vulnerable to attack. One can become lost in another’s thoughts, as if in a maze, and never find her way out again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say, although I am thinking of something else. “My father. Tell me of him. You were … close?”

  Balthazar seems taken aback, but then a sad smile forms on his face. This is not a question he expected, I would assume. “Alexander was a dear friend and colleague,” he says. “Brave, generous, and always the first to rush into battle.” His smile broadens a little, perhaps at the memory of better times.

  “How did he die?”

  He exhales a weary breath. “Mephisto laid a trap, with your mother as the quarry. I told Alexander to w
ait—​that we needed to think it through. But his love for her could not be swayed by logic. He rushed in too quickly, and there, he met his end.”

  Anger wells up inside of me. “But he did not die in vain,” I insist, looking for solace. “He killed one of them. Malachai Grimstead. You said that he delivered the killing blow.”

  “That is true, Jessamine. And soon after, Mephisto fled into the shadows.”

  “Until now,” I say.

  “Yes, my child. Until now.”

  My left hand tightens into a fist. I think of the gentle father I knew, and see another side of him, that of a fierce warrior. Always the first to rush into battle.

  “Already I can see his bravery in you, Jessamine,” Balthazar says. “And your mother’s.”

  I unclench my fist. Yes, I think. I see it too.

  Silence fills the room.

  “Is there anything else?” he asks, and his eyebrows rise, as if he has a secret waiting to be revealed.

  I search my thoughts. He seems to be referring to something specific, but what? “No,” I say, although it is more of a question.

  Balthazar leans forward in his chair a little and sweeps his hair away from his face. “There is always a consequence when using an ability. One that varies from person to person, but still, there is always a cost.”

  Now I realize. I think back on the few times I have used the gift of mesmerism: the man on the bus or reading Emily’s mind. Each time ended with a feeling of fatigue.

  “I didn’t know you noticed,” I say.

  Balthazar only points to his eye again.

  “I feel tired after I do it. It’s a sharp pain along my neck and shoulders, sometimes even a stab in my temple. What is it?”

  “The power of mesmerism uses energies that can exhaust one’s spirit. Use it carefully, Jess. One would not want to be drained of power when it is needed most.”

  I find this thought disturbing and rub my temple with two fingers, as I feel a headache coming on.

  I am exhausted, and my hand throbs from gripping the lash. After leaving Balthazar, I pass Emily’s room on the way to my own. A faint glow pulses along the bottom of her door. Strange, that. It’s evening now, but I don’t smell wood smoke or the oil from a lamp. I knock and then enter.