The Mesmerist

by Ronald L. Smith

  We exit the omnibus near the High Street and walk back to 17 Wadsworth Place. The day is gray and cold, and the clouds seem to slowly drift down to earth and swallow us in a heavy fog. The bodies in the Old Nichol are still with me. I will carry their faces forever.

  There is noise and commotion everywhere: children running barefoot or begging for scraps of food, men pushing carts full of rubbish, and vendors shouting out their best bargains of the day. Dogs and cats as thin as skeletons root in trash heaps.

  A woman leans out of a high tenement window and empties a chamber pot into the street, just barely missing my head. I almost gag as the smell rises up to greet me. I can’t imagine what I would have done if it had landed on me.

  As we pass a jeweler’s shop, a man in dirty clothes blocks our path. Small, piggish eyes dart around in a prunish face. He holds a brush in his hand, and at his feet is a bucket of red paint.

  “Excuse us, please, sir,” Balthazar says, about to step around him.

  The man spits at Balthazar’s feet. “It’s all your fault! All of you!”

  I gasp aloud. Balthazar looks at the spittle and lets out a long, frustrated breath. Emily steps out from behind me. “Piss off!” she shouts.

  The man drops his brush, and in the blink of an eye, reaches in his trousers and whips out a crude knife. “Little rat,” he hisses.

  With one quick movement, Emily kicks out hard with her left foot, catching the man right in his shin. I step back as he crumples to his knees, letting out a string of curses as he does so. The knife falls from his hand and clatters on the cobblestones. Emily scoops it up without missing a beat.

  “I think you should be on your way,” Balthazar says calmly.

  The man picks himself up and stands close to Balthazar, who does not flinch.

  “Seen your like before,” the man says. “A new day is coming, mark my words.” He pauses and narrows his eyes. “You’re Irish, eh? I can tell. Hair blacker than coal.”

  A few people have stopped in the street and are taking in the scene. “Be on your way,” Gabriel says fiercely. The man smirks, but something in Gabriel’s gaze sends him down the street, leaving his bucket and paintbrush right where we stand. Once he is some distance away, he reaches into his filthy coat, pulls out a bottle, then raises it to his lips, drinking greedily.

  “He’s touched,” Emily says. “What’s he on about?”

  And that’s when I remember.

  “He’s painting red Xs. Like we saw before, at the clockmaker’s.”

  “What news is this?” Balthazar asks.

  We didn’t tell him, I realize. It didn’t seem important at the time, as all our attention had been focused on the boy in the alley. We quickly fill him in.

  “Great calamity!” a voice rings out. “Mysterious sickness strikes London. Daily Telegraph and Courier. Great calamity!”

  I turn around to see a shabbily dressed newspaper boy shouting at the top of his lungs. Balthazar raises a hand in the air, and the boy approaches. I stare at him. He looks like one of hundreds I’ve seen in the East End—undernourished, holes in his shoes, and a face that shows the scourge of a hard life.

  Balthazar reaches into his coat pocket and gives the boy a shiny coin. His eyes widen. “That’s a gold sovereign, sir. That there’s a gold sovereign!”

  “Keep it, my child,” Balthazar tells him.

  The newspaper boy swallows, and his tiny Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He finally notices Emily, Gabriel, and me and then turns back to Balthazar. “Sir?” he says, looking up at the strange man before him. “Is this a trick, sir?”

  Balthazar smiles and plucks a newspaper from the boy’s bag. “Be on your way now,” he says. “Buy some food for your family.”

  The boy looks at the coin again. He sniffles. He’s going to cry, and I am afraid I will too if he doesn’t leave soon. “Bless you, sir,” he says, looking up at Balthazar. And then he drops his newspaper sack at his feet and rushes off.

  Emily smirks. “Got another one of them there coins?”

  Balthazar shakes his head. “Come,” he says. “Over here.”

  We move away from the commotion on the street and huddle under the awning of a bakery. Balthazar snaps open the paper so the front page is revealed. I lean in closer to read:

  THE GREAT CALAMITY

  TO THE INHABITANTS OF LONDON AND ITS ENVIRONS

  *

  It is deemed proper to call attention to Symptoms & Remedies of what has been deemed The Great Calamity.

  SYMPTOMS OF THE DISORDER

  Giddiness, nervous agitation, slow pulse, cramps in fingers and toes, a moist, blackened tongue, irregular respiration, weeping red sores.

  Victims describe a rosy rash prone to itch, which then spreads to the whole body. Some are disguising the malodorous aroma that accompanies the disease by wearing pouches of fresh herbs and posies. Children in Whitechapel and Bethnal Green have taken to repeating a rhyme that describes the illness.

  I pause, struck still. A rhyme that describes the illness. I look to Balthazar, who arches an eyebrow. I take a breath and continue reading down the page.

  The patients’ garments should be burned. Those suffering from the disease should be put to bed, wrapped in hot blankets, with poultices applied to the feet and legs to restore their warmth. Twenty to forty drops of laudanum may be employed in a severe case.

  Bishop Frederick Wainsthrop says that the sickness is caused by communists, immigrants, and Gypsies. “They are the harbingers of this catastrophe,” he has said, “and are surely spreading the disease as quickly as would vermin.”

  The hateful words stick in my brain … as would vermin.

  A memory comes to me. It is of Deepa, the Indian girl I befriended back home. She was a foreigner too, and was set upon daily by ruffians—​and I did nothing. Nothing!

  “A rosy rash,” I say. “And posies to hide the smell. Like the boy’s song.”

  “And also spoken by the ghoul,” Gabriel adds. “And the burning of garments is surely the ashes.”

  There is a pause.

  “And every one of them falling down dead,” Balthazar finishes.

  Emily nudges me. “What’s it say?” she demands. “C’mon, then.”

  I tell Emily the news we have read. She shakes her head. “So there’s blokes going round saying it were foreigners who caused this sickness, eh?”

  A knot forms in my stomach. “Yes, Em. People are blaming them for the disease that’s going around. It seems even their businesses are being attacked.”

  “A root of bitterness has grown in people’s hearts,” Gabriel says solemnly.

  “That ain’t right,” Emily says.

  “It’s not,” Balthazar agrees. “It is surely Mephisto, spreading lies and hatred, trying to divide the city in two.”

  Come to me and save your city.

  The air suddenly becomes cooler, and I wrap my cloak around my shoulders.

  We set off on our way again and pass two raven-haired children selling kindling from a basket. Their skin is olive-colored. Will they be set upon too?

  The clip-clop of hooves behind us compels me to turn around.

  It is a man driving a wagon with a team of mules up the High Street. Bells jangle in their harnesses. He pulls the reins and comes to a stop. I watch him step from his seat. I am not sure what I am looking at, for he wears a mask, like a bird’s head, and a long black cloak. Gloves rise up his arms. Not any part of his skin is showing. The hooked beak is sharp and ivory-colored, and the eyes behind the mask glitter in the grimy yellow light. Even from where I stand several feet away, I can see flies buzzing around the cart. The sound seems to grow in my ears until it is as loud as a swarm of angry bees.

  “A plague doctor,” Gabriel whispers.

  “A what?” Emily asks.

  “That’s what they called him in ancient times,” Gabriel says. “It was the Plague of Justinian, in the sixth century.”

  Before I can ask how Gabriel knows this, I watch the m
an shuffle into an alley. He returns a moment later.

  And he is dragging a dead body.

  Emily gasps.

  The corpse has no shoes on its feet and is being pulled along like a rag doll, as if it weighs no more than a few stone. Once the bird man is closer to his cart, he lifts it up and throws it into the back of the wagon, then slaps his hands together and climbs back into his seat. With a flick of the reins, the mules continue down the street.

  And the wagon is coming our way.

  Gabriel touches my elbow. “Back,” he says, but I do not move.

  I shudder as it draws closer.

  “Jess!” Balthazar shouts.

  A blast of foul air rushes up my nostrils. I don’t want to look, but it is too late. I have already seen what is within.

  More bodies.

  A jumbled pile of bodies stuffed into the bed of the cart, and all bearing the same red and purple bruises, like the boy in the alley.

  I gag.

  Crooked arms and legs stick up at odd angles. Stiff black fingers grasp at the empty air. I feel something vile in the back of my throat. They are all dead. Dead from the sickness.

  I look on in horror as a child’s hand, dangling from the cart, twitches and then goes still.

  Balthazar reaches for my arm to pull me away.

  “No!” I tell him. “Wait.”

  I breathe in and out slowly. A thought comes to me, unbidden. I feel the familiar itch at the center of my forehead, and when I reach up to touch it, red mist swirls from the bird man’s head.

  Ash and smoke cloud my vision. Overhead, swirling, bruised clouds pulse with lightning. Rats are everywhere, as if the whole of London has been overrun. They skitter on the cobblestones, their long nails scrabbling over the bricks. They speed down alleys and even climb walls. I feel something stir around my feet. A creeping fog slides along the ground and wreathes around my ankles. I hold my breath. If I breathe it in, I know I will die. I just know it.

  My face grows warm. Out of the fog comes another face, not the bird man’s, but something … unknown. It is a cold white face, framed by locks of dark hair. The eyes are two pinpoints of red, and they blaze with an unnatural light. I hear raspy breathing and then: “Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.”

  “No!” I shout, clamping my hands over my ears. “No! No! No!”

  “Jess!”

  It is Emily, grasping my shoulders. “Wake up, Jess!”

  I desperately come to and peer around. My breath is short, and I loosen my scarf, for I feel as if I will suffocate.

  “What did you see?” asks Balthazar.

  “London,” I say breathlessly. “With rats. Everywhere.”

  “And what else?”

  “The same voice. The one in the cave. ‘Darkling,’ it called.” My heart begins to race, beating so fast, I feel as if it will jump out of my chest. “I saw the man with flames for eyes! He was calling me! No! No!”

  I crumple into Balthazar’s arms.

  A note rings in the air. It is pure and bright and surrounds me with peace. I close my eyes. The filth of the city is washed away for a moment. I feel as if I am lying in a bed of lavender. A cool breeze caresses my cheek. My breath steadies. Another note chimes, and I open my eyes.

  Gabriel slides his small harp back into his coat.

  I ease away from Balthazar to look at Gabriel. “Thank you,” I tell him.

  “Come,” Balthazar says. “We must get Jessamine home.”

  Balthazar takes my arm as we head back to 17 Wadsworth Place. All my energy is spent, and I lean on him for support.

  As we walk, we find to our horror that more red Xs have appeared, scrawled on wooden doors and shop windows.

  The dripping red paint makes me think of blood.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Night of Breaking Glass

  Balthazar opens the door to 17 Wadsworth Place.

  “Blimey,” Emily whispers.

  The whole front room has been torn apart. Broken furniture has been tossed about, books are shredded and scattered on the floor, and, most frightening of all, long claw marks have ripped through the drab wallpaper. There is a smell in the air like sulfur.

  I think back to my encounter with the spirit board. Soon, my lovely, the voice had taunted me. Very soon.

  This is all my fault. They are coming for me.

  Balthazar steps farther into the room and surveys the wreckage.

  It is then that it hits me.

  “Darby!” I shout.

  I rush up the steps, gathering my skirts, almost tripping as I do so. I push open the door to her room. “Darby!” I cry, whipping my head from left to right. And then I see it, on the wall behind her bed: a lone letter, written in blood:

  M

  “I am going to find her,” I tell Balthazar, adjusting my satchel over my shoulder. “Mephisto killed my mother and father, and now they have taken Darby. I will not wait any longer!”

  Balthazar stands amidst the rubble of the front room and looks around, as if seeing it for the first time. “For all I have done for her, I could not keep her safe,” he says absently.

  “We have to get her back,” Emily says.

  “They know our location,” Gabriel adds. “It’s only a matter of time until they come again.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. “I swore an oath to use my power for the good of the land and to strike down evil at any cost.”

  Emily smiles. Gabriel’s lips are set in determination.

  “And that’s what I’m going to do,” I continue. “We are the League of Ravens. And now is our time.”

  Balthazar comes out of his stupor and looks at the three of us. His face is long. “I am afraid I have let you all down,” he says contritely. “I once told you it was time for a new generation to stop the evil that is stirring in the shadows. That day has now come.”

  “What are you implying?” I ask, curious.

  “I have been too cautious,” he answers. “Waiting for the clues to fall into place. All the while, Mephisto has been growing stronger.”

  He seems lost in his thoughts again, his eyes distant. He turns to me. “Go now, Jessamine. Go now and find Darby and avenge your parents.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” Emily asks.

  Balthazar lays a hand on her small shoulder. “As Jess said, you are the League of Ravens. Your time to strike is now.”

  “But what will you do?” I ask. “Surely you’re not staying here?”

  The distracted look returns, along with a wrinkling of the brow and a tightening of his lips. “I have something that I must do—​greater than this moment—​and I cannot let it go unattended.”

  Unbelievable.

  I open my mouth and then close it. I feel like grasping him by the shoulders and shaking him. What could be more important than finding Darby and stopping Mephisto?

  “I promise to see you again,” he says. “And I know you will prevail. All of you.”

  I do not understand, and I can think of nothing to say. Gabriel and Emily look to me as if I am now their leader. “The spirit board,” I suggest. “Maybe there is a clue that can lead us to Mephisto’s lair.”

  I glance about the room.

  Emily points behind me. “You mean that?” she asks.

  I turn around to see the remains of the spirit board, broken into jagged pieces and lying amidst shards of glass.

  Balthazar reaches into his waistcoat pocket, where a gentleman would usually keep a watch, and pulls something out by a length of chain. It is a rock of some sort, with no distinctive color, but I see light reflected in its form.

  “This is a faerie stone,” he says, and comes to stand in front of me. He loops the chain around my neck. “It is used to guide travelers in unknown realms.”

  I raise my hand to caress it. It is smooth to the touch.

  “I was going to give it to you soon,” he says, “when the time was right—​but there couldn’t be a better occasion than now.”

  My fing
ers run along the length of chain.

  “Press it firmly,” he tells me, “and think on the place or object you want to reach.”

  I close my eyes and squeeze the stone. For several seconds there is nothing, but slowly, like a fire being kindled, warmth trickles into my palm. I open my eyes. The stone is flickering with color—​sea blue and sunshine yellow, fiery red and deep green. Mephisto, I think. Where are they? How do I find them?

  Cold seeps into my hand. The stone goes black, pulsing with a tiny red light. Mephisto, I think again. Where do they hide?

  A tunnel is before me, a long, winding tube of black. White mist clouds my vision. The grinding, screeching sound rings in my ears again.

  I open my eyes. It is the same thing as before, but what does it mean? “Come,” I say to Emily and Gabriel, adjusting my satchel. “It’s time to find Darby.”

  Balthazar lays a hand on my cheek. He looks at me for a long moment. “When you find them, Jessamine, show no mercy.”

  And I promise myself—​I will not.

  Night has fallen.

  The smell of death drifts through the roads and alleys like a poisonous fog.

  We start on the High Street, looking for clues. We dart down twisting alleys, explore ruined houses, and even venture into the small forest beyond the edge of the city. The whole time, I see things that make me shudder: sick, weeping children; trash heaps buzzing with flies; and everywhere the diseased, clinging to whatever life they have left.

  Jangling bells make me pause. Up ahead, I see the bird man again, trundling down the foggy road with his cart of the dead. He stops at the door of a crumbling house and collects a body shrouded in bedsheets.

  “It’s him again.” Emily says. “The plague doctor.”

  I looked into his mind before. Maybe I can find a clue—​

  The sound of breaking glass shatters my thoughts.

  I whip my head around. A flaming bottle has been tossed through a shop window, and now the flames rise inside. A mob is forming behind us—​men with sticks and makeshift clubs, and one who holds a cutlass, a long, skinny sword that gleams in the night.

  “Bloody ’ell,” Emily mutters.

  Several figures huddle around a shabbily dressed man standing on a wooden crate, bellowing at the top of his lungs. I recoil in horror. It is the same vagabond who spit at us earlier.