The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  My mouth opens in shock.

  Emily is sitting on her bed, tossing a ball of light from hand to hand.

  “Emily!” I shout.

  She looks up, and there is not the slightest hint of fear on her face.

  “It’s only light,” she says. “That’s my power. I’m a lightbringer.”

  I close the door and take a step closer. White and yellow trails swirl about in the ball.

  “A what? What is—​Can you feel it? Is it hot?”

  “Not now,” she says, “but if I get angry …”

  She closes her eyes. A vein begins to throb at her temple. The ball of light is turning, changing to a fiery red. A bead of sweat appears on her forehead.

  “Emily,” I say, “are you all right?”

  She opens her eyes. The orb returns to a cool yellow and then vanishes right before my eyes. She releases a tremulous breath, and we are in the dark. I hear her fumbling at the table by her bed and then the strike of a match. Candlelight brightens the room, but it is faint. She stands and lights a wall sconce so we have more to see by, and then sits back down on the bed.

  “How?” I ask her. “Could you always do this?”

  “When I was a wee child, I remember me mum blowing out the candle at my bedside. When she left the room, I lit my own light. I thought everybody could do it.”

  I feel sad at hearing these words.

  “One day I got mad ’cause me old da’ beat me for stealing food. I got so angry, the house almost burned down. After that, he took me away.”

  A vision of Emily being dragged up the street flashes through my mind. My heart breaks. She was misunderstood and given away out of fear.

  “For a long time after that, I couldn’t make my light anymore, but old Balthy taught me how to control it, see?”

  “Old Balthy?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Old Balthy. What kind of name is Balthazar, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer vaguely. There is silence for a moment. “How do you feel about all this?” I ask her, peering about the room.

  “All what?”

  “Being here in London. Living in this house. This League of Ravens business.”

  “Oh,” she says casually. “Well, the way I see it, there’s good blokes and bad ones, right? I seen lots of ’em at the orphanage. And this Mephisto is bad. They killed your da’, didn’t they?”

  Emily’s cavalier mention of Father’s passing takes me by surprise. Balthazar must have told her. “Yes,” I say. “They did.”

  “Well then, it sounds like you’ve got to revenge him.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “I surely think so.”

  Emily gestures for me to sit, which I do, in a small, childlike chair next to her desk.

  “It was just me and Gabbyshins at the orphanage,” she starts, fiddling with the stitched fabric of her bedding. “We had to look after ourselves. A sorry lot they all were. And the food! Blimey! Mush every day.”

  “Mush?”

  “Well, mush is the same as slop, but mush has peas. Sometimes we’d get a wrinkled piece of meat.”

  “Who is Gabbyshins?”

  “Gabriel,” she explains. “Old Gabbyshins, I call him.”

  We are interrupted by a knock at the door. To my surprise, Gabriel enters.

  “Speak of the devil, and he will appear,” Emily says.

  Gabriel narrows his eyes at her.

  “Sorry,” she mutters, sinking back into the bed.

  I find this exchange between the two of them very odd.

  “I told her,” Emily goes on. “I told her about my light.”

  Gabriel closes the door behind him and stands, as there is no place for him to sit other than the foot of the bed. I study his face. There is something sad there, behind the dark circles of his eyes, like he’s carrying the burden of the world on his small shoulders. But why would a young boy have this look about him? “I guess you want to know about me, then,” he says.

  Yes! I think, but do not let my curiosity show.

  He walks to the small window and stares out at the dark. I watch his shoulders rise and fall. He reaches into his coat, and when he turns back around, a small stringed instrument is cradled in his arms. It is then that I hear perhaps the loveliest sound I have ever heard. It fills me with a sense of joy, and all in the world seems to be at ease. I close my eyes. I see Mother and Father laughing. I see myself and Deepa down at the docks, watching the ships come in.

  And then Gabriel plays another note.

  The joy vanishes, to be replaced by a sense of loss I feel in the pit of my stomach. It is painful—​not in a physical way, but an ache, as if my soul itself has been pierced. He strikes another note, and the pain subsides.

  Emily smiles. “Neat, innit?”

  I gaze at Gabriel, and the candlelight flickers on his face.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Y-yes—” I stutter. “That—​instrument. What is it? What are you?”

  “Merely a bard,” he says, “and this is only a harp.”

  Emily giggles, as if sharing in a private joke.

  “My gift lies in the power to affect others through song,” Gabriel says. “I can change people’s emotions and even drive them to do terrible things.”

  “Fascinating,” I murmur. But I wonder if there’s more to his story, and I try to look into his mind. I know it is an invasion, but I keep my gaze steady. I sense nothing, like I am staring at a blank white canvas. He looks at me curiously until I turn away, embarrassed, and feel the telltale pain along my shoulders.

  “And is that all you can do?” I ask.

  Emily laughs. “I think that’s quite enough, innit? You shoulda seen what he done to old Olly back at Nowhere, just by playing a song on that there harp.”

  “Nowhere?” I ask.

  “The orphanage,” Gabriel clarifies. “That’s what we called it.”

  Nowhere, I think. What dreadful things could one witness at such a place? I don’t have to ask aloud, because Emily tells me. “There were a man named Fitchett what roamed around at night with a silver cane,” she says, “tapping the floors to make sure we was snug in bed. You’d hear him coming: tap, tap, tap. He smelled like gin and old onions.”

  I imagine that the two of them must have had quite a hard time at the orphanage.

  “And how do you feel about all this?” I ask Gabriel, just as I did Emily. “Being here, under Balthazar’s charge? This League of Ravens?”

  Gabriel does not hesitate. “It is my duty to strike down evil wherever it may stand. Only through light can the darkness be vanquished.”

  “That just means he’ll slay any beastie we come across,” Emily says.

  Gabriel shakes his head, but I see a smile in his dark eyes.

  The three of us, I think. Together—​the League of Ravens.

  Whatever is to come, I am not alone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Rosy Boy

  My first real outing into London comes the next day. Balthazar has asked Emily and Gabriel to show me the market so I can become a little more familiar with my surroundings. “You need to know your way around if you’re ever on the run,” he had said, his face showing no sign of humor.

  This gives me pause, but I do feel the need to explore. I could use a break from the training.

  Once we depart, I discover that the East End of London is beyond anything I could have prepared for. Children with no shoes on their feet run around like packs of wild animals, people wheel carts of food down muddy streets, pigs and cows meander in back gardens, and horse-drawn carriages rumble along so quickly, I have to dive out of the way. Worst of all, factories belch clouds of black smoke into the air.

  But that is nothing compared with the market itself, which is only a few short blocks from 17 Wadsworth Place. The High Street, Emily calls it.

  “Filthy” is too kind a word for this place. Vagabonds are at every other step, holding out battered hats for money. A few mean-looking women sta
nd in front of their doors dressed only in thin smallclothes. Some men lie drunk amidst the stench and rubbish. Chickens squawk, sheep bleat, and placid cows move along slowly, as if they know what their fate will be. My leather boots are immediately ruined by some unknown murky substance that I fear is animal blood from a butcher’s shop. It is horrendous. Emily and Gabriel, however, seem to take no notice, as if this is just another jolly trip to the market.

  The day is cold but sunny, and the three of us weave our way among the stalls, where costermongers sell everything from bread and meat to roasted chestnuts. The air is full of chattering voices and sharp smells. Songbirds shriek inside their cages. And everywhere hawkers crying their wares:

  “Sheep’s trotters! One guinea!”

  “Potato! All hot! Potatoes here!”

  “Hot eels! Ha’penny!”

  A young boy, his face darkened by what looks like coal, sweeps a path in the dirty street, hoping for a few coins from a kind stranger. Gathering my skirts, I quickly step around a mound of horse muck. So far, I find this adventure absolutely appalling.

  “Oh!” Emily cries, and suddenly stops.

  “What is it?” I ask, looking around warily, perhaps for one of Mephisto’s ghouls.

  “I smell eel pie,” she says, a hungry gleam in her eyes. “C’mon. Nothing better than a bit o’ pie and mash.”

  The thought of eel anything revolts me, but I follow her and Gabriel as she winds her way among the vendors. After a moment we find ourselves at a stall where pies are set out on a wooden slab. Emily licks her lips. The pie man leans over the makeshift counter. I shrink back. “Don’t think I can’t see ye,” he mutters, “just because me gots only one eye.”

  I force myself to look at his face. Where his left eye should be is a scarred flap of dry skin. A red neckerchief is knotted around his throat.

  “How much for the eel pie, then?” Emily asks.

  He mutters something I cannot hear and winks at her with his good eye. He looks at me for an uncomfortably long moment. “And what are you lot doing out all on your lonesome?”

  “Piss off,” Emily says sharply, and I gasp at her language. “Just give us the pie, then, yeah?”

  “Har! She’s a sassy one!” he bellows, revealing teeth the color of mud. He lifts a pie and pokes a crooked finger through the crusty top, then holds it up and licks it. “Ah,” he moans. “Cat.”

  I close my eyes.

  He picks up another, but this time, he digs in with two fingers and pulls out what must surely be an eel. He tilts back his head and opens his mouth, and as I watch in horror, the eel slides down his throat with a disgusting slurp. “Mmm,” he says. “Fishy. That’ll be your eel, then.”

  My stomach falls to my feet.

  He lifts the pie tin and hands it to Emily, who drops a few coins into his hand. She’s going to buy it? After he put his grubby fingers into it!

  He tosses the coins into an empty can, and then his horrid gaze falls on me again. The flap of skin that covers his eye socket twitches, as if an eyeball were still in there, moving around. Quicker than lightning, his hand shoots out and squeezes my wrist. “Better get home soon, poppet,” he whispers. “When it gets dark here, bad things come out.”

  “Ow!” I shout. “Unhand me!”

  Emily pulls me away. “Sod off, you great pillock!”

  I would be shocked once again by Emily’s language, but I am still reeling from the man’s breath.

  “C’mon,” Gabriel says, a fierce look in his eyes. “Let’s go.”

  I leave the stall shaking and glance back at the exact moment the pie vendor snorts into a yellow rag.

  “You all right, then?” Emily asks.

  I let out a bewildered breath. “Yes,” I say. “What a beast!”

  “Aw, that old codger’s no trouble,” she says. “Me and Gabbyshins had to put up with worse back at Nowhere.”

  The sound of an organ grinder drifts through the air. I look up to see that the clear sky has given over to threatening storm clouds. We continue on, passing the stalls and crowds, and come upon a ragged boy and girl sitting on blocks of wood, trying to earn a few coppers. A basket of hand-carved clothespins sits before them. They are both so skinny, my heart breaks just looking at them. Back in Deal, there were several poor families, but nothing compares to these two, with their sunken cheeks and scabby knees. They don’t even have proper clothes. “C’mon,” Emily urges me. “What are you lookin’ at?”

  “Nothing,” I say, turning away from the two children, and wishing I had some coins to give. Before I can think on them any longer, the faint ringing of jaunty music rises in my ears, different from the organ grinder’s. As we turn the corner, I see the source.

  A little distance from the street, under a group of trees, several men and women are gathered. A few small children sit on blankets in front of a bow-topped caravan, a sort of wagon. A sorry-looking mule snuffs at the dry grass, and a skinny dog gnaws on a bone.

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  “Gypsies,” Emily says.

  Gabriel shakes his head. “They are called the Roma people. They fled faraway lands, where they were persecuted, only to arrive in England to suffer the same fate.”

  I am taken aback by Gabriel’s serious tone. I look back at the group. The women are dressed in long, colorful skirts, with scarves on their heads, and the men in loose trousers and black boots. A big, burly man is the source of the music and plays a curious instrument with black and white keys like a piano but held up to his chest by a strap around his neck. Fingers as large as sausages nimbly work over the keys.

  “C’mon, then,” Emily says, tugging my hand. “Bloody pie’s getting cold.”

  We continue on, the music fading, and pass a storefront with broken windows. A red X is painted on the door. “What is this?” I ask. We all pause and peer inside. It is a clockmaker’s shop, and it is entirely disheveled. Tall tower clocks are toppled over, gears and little springs are strewn about, and the counters have been smashed. Shards of glass sparkle on the wooden floor. I look back at the door. Underneath the X, there is a handbill written in big block letters:

  HUE & CRY!

  A GREAT PUBLIC MEETING

  OF THE WORKING CLASSES

  9 NOVEMBER

  COMMUNISTS!

  IMMIGRANTS!

  GYPSIES!

  SPREADERS OF DISEASE AND SICKNESS.

  PROTECT YOUR FAIR ENGLAND!

  FOREIGNERS OUT!

  “What’s a communist?” Emily asks.

  But I don’t have a chance to answer, for right at that moment, a little boy stumbles out of the alley to our left. He doesn’t wear a shirt or shoes, only ragged trousers cut off at the knee. We all pause. There is something wrong with him, I realize. He’s sick. Red, weeping sores mark his chest.

  “Help,” the little boy whispers, thrusting out stiff black fingers, more like a claw than a hand. “Please. Help me.”

  I recall the dream I had the other night—​a little girl in a pinafore dress, with blood along the hem. I take a step toward him.

  “Wait!” Gabriel warns.

  The boy steps closer. He swallows and then opens his mouth. “Ring around the rosy,” he sings weakly. “A pocketful of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!”

  And then he does exactly that, right there in the filthy alley.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Upon a Silver Tray

  The three of us stand several feet from the body, silent. The air is cooler now, and fine drops of rain begin to fall. Emily screws up her face. “Wouldn’t wanna catch whatever’s got to him.”

  “It’s the same rhyme,” I say, and my voice seems loud in the mouth of the alley, bouncing off the dank walls and back into my throat. “The same message that was written on the slate back home.”

  “Strange,” Gabriel mutters. He takes a few hesitant steps closer but remains a safe distance away. After a moment he raises his right hand and makes the sign of the cross in the air. I hear his voice, deep ye
t soft, and the words drift into my ears. “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,” he whispers.

  A prayer?

  Emily’s voice brings me back to the moment. “We better get back,” she says, “and tell old Balthy what happened.”

  “We can’t just leave him here,” I protest.

  “We shouldn’t get any closer,” Gabriel says. “He has surely died.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  Gabriel turns to me, his dark eyes somber. “I just know,” he says flatly.

  “Right,” Emily adds. “He would know.”

  I sigh in frustration. “How would you just know?”

  But Gabriel doesn’t answer, only lowers his head a moment and avoids my gaze.

  Is this something to do with his power? The music?

  I look once again at the boy’s body.

  “C’mon,” Emily insists, taking my hand. “Let’s be off.”

  I pull myself away, but as we head back to 17 Wadsworth Place, I hear the rhyme repeating in my head: Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!

  “It was just like the rhyme on the slate,” I tell Balthazar. “The exact same words.”

  “He were dirty,” Emily adds, “and all covered in rosy marks. His fingernails was all blacklike, sire.”

  We take refuge in the sitting room and warm ourselves before the fire. My clothes have become damp and itchy from the sudden rain. Balthazar sits quietly, but he looks as if he could spring into action at any moment. His brow furrows at our news. “It sounds like one of your nursery rhymes.”

  One of your, I notice. I sometimes forget that he is not fully human.

  “But what does it mean?” I ask.

  “That is still a mystery, Miss Jessamine, but it is surely the work of Mephisto.”

  He’s right. There is no other reason why this same rhyme would be sung by the boy and also appear on the slate.

  “He was ravaged by disease,” Gabriel says. “Some terrible sickness.”

  “Be on your guard,” Balthazar warns us. “If you see anyone like this again, do not go near them under any circumstance.”

  We all nod in agreement. There is a moment of silence that seems to go on forever.