Tersias the Oracle

by G. P. Taylor

  “I have a surprise for you, Tersias. Are you sure you will not speak for me?” Malachi said as he got closer. “If you don’t speak for me, then you will be mute as well as blind . . .”

  “A fire-rod to still my tongue?” Tersias asked as he got to his feet and backed away.

  “You guess well. . . . You are no use as a beggar, but as a prophet and seer you are unique. Do that for me and your life will change. You will have a golden cage and silk sheets. I will tell the world you are my own, my adopted son. I will teach you the way of alchemy and the secrets of the world will be yours.”

  “And I will perform like some dancing bear as a party trick?” Tersias asked as in his mind he watched his master draw closer.

  “You will astound and amaze. I will be your guardian and you my apprentice,” Malachi said as he lifted the fire-rod and pointed it through the bars of the cage towards Tersias, who pushed himself further away, squeezing his back against the thick metal rods.

  Malachi pushed the hot poker slowly towards him, inch by inch. Tersias turned his face away from the fire-rod. “Feel the heat, Tersias? All you have to do is say yes and you will have no fear. We can seal our friendship. . . . Better to be a quick-tongued friend than a mute enemy. BLIND AND SILENT,” he shouted.

  “I will not speak,” Tersias shouted as the blistering poker got nearer.

  “Then you are brave or stupid. Be my oracle and live with a loose tongue; refuse and I will singe it to the roof of your mouth.” Malachi pressed the fire-rod closer.

  “Speak for him, boy,” a soft-voiced Wretchkin said quickly. “Or he will hurt you.”

  “I will prophesy for you,” Tersias said reluctantly.

  “A wise boy will always keep his tongue,” Malachi said as he slipped the poker from the cage and laughed. “Tomorrow we will take to the streets and you will speak to the people. There has been much madness, and they will want to know what comes to them. I will prepare you a carriage fit for a king, my boy!”

  II

  BLACK MARY’S WELL

  In the thick bright moonlight, the gnarled trees of Conduit Fields were etched with a vivid silver thread against the sky.

  Jonah Ketch lay huddled in the remnants of a stack of summer straw. He moaned to himself and twisted the curls of his bushy black hair as the growing cold seeped through his coat and breeches. In his belt an old, rusted pistol pressed awkwardly against the ground, clashing against a long knife that had slipped its leather sheath.

  Jonah groaned with each cold breath and tried to open his eyes to look up at the night sky and the comet from which he had tried to escape. The threat seemed to be over. The sky had stopped falling.

  Jonah had run from his lodging in Goose Alley when the meteors from the comet first struck. He’d watched fearfully as a fireball smashed through the dome of St. Paul’s. The streets had been packed with people fleeing the apocalypse as stone upon stone had fallen from the sky, burning bloodred hail on the city. As he had run along Saffron Hill, he’d seen a man torn in two by a fragment of the blistering sky-rock. He had run even faster, until far in the distance he could see the pile of stones that was Black Mary’s Well.

  At the well stones he had decided to stop and rest his feet. He knew this place well. Here two lanes came together, lined by a thick gorse hedge. It was the ideal place to lie in wait, covered by the evening gloom. Here he could patiently hold fast until he could trap a lone traveller or tired carriage as, approaching the outskirts of the city, they lapsed into a false feeling of security.

  In his fifteen years he had already killed one man—though it was more an accident than an act of murder, as the old pistol he carried had almost of its own wanting discharged lead into the belly of a fat man with false teeth. Jonah had pulled the gun from his breeches on the man’s approach, and as he shouted for the man to stand, there had been a blinding flash. He had stared hopelessly as the shot ripped into the man and he crumpled to the ground. In the half-light Jonah had looked around but could see no one. He knew he had time to empty pockets and without panic or fear had walked the three paces and stared down at the wide-eyed face before quickly rifling the man’s pockets of a fob watch and leather purse.

  The highway had provided for him when no one else had. He was a footpad, a common robber doing the only work for which he was able and with no one to tell him different. In his heart he dreamt of being a mounted highwayman, free to travel as far as Lincoln or York, and not trapped to London lanes.

  He breathed deeply, taking in the cold night air and lying on his back in the deep straw as he looked up to the clear sky. The comet had gone! In its place the embers of its dust floated to the earth like a myriad of tiny stars bursting to red, green and purple flames as they were sucked into the atmosphere. To Jonah they looked like a billion tiny candles spluttering and sparking on the crest of heaven. He smiled to himself. . . . He was alive.

  Like the whole of London, Jonah had thought that the coming of the comet was the start of the apocalypse, the end of the world and the final judgment. So far he had escaped punishment for the crimes he had committed, but he knew that at the end of time he would answer to a power from which even he could not escape. He would think about that another time.

  Jonah sat up and crawled to the wellspring, where he plunged his face into its cold water. It burnt the skin and set fire to each nerve, shuddering his spine with its chilliness. He wiped the water from his face and listened. From somewhere in the distance came a familiar sound: A carriage approached.

  Jonah’s mind raced. He felt his heart swell with the urge to take from the rich and keep it for himself. It was an overwhelming desire, like an inner force that he could not resist. Jonah searched the deep pocket inside his tattered frock coat. Quickly, he found the flour sack with its rough-cut eyeholes and charcoal-painted smile. He slipped the disguise over his head, peering through the slits into the night.

  He checked the pistol. With one click it was ready. “Bring me luck, Black Mary, and I will never forget you,” he said quietly, then began to crawl towards the lane as the carriage rattled towards him.

  In the distance he could see the outline of the carriage. There was just the driver on top, no musket-man or plate-boy, and two fat horses quickly pulling the covered trap. A woman inside, he thought to himself as he stole through the gorse that picked at his coat. With one hand he held the hem of the flour sack to his neck, twisting it tighter and tighter. This was all he loved: waiting for the time to pounce and take what was owed him.

  As the carriage approached, he made ready to jump. In his haste he slipped down the bank and into the lane, landing in the mud. Then Jonah jumped to his feet. “STAND! Your money or the lead! Give me what is yours or end up . . . dead!”

  A horse reared and twisted the carriage to one side, pulling it into the ditch and trapping the wheels in the thick November mud. The driver fell from the seat and vanished into the darkness. Jonah strode towards the carriage, steadying his pistol towards the small window and door that flapped open.

  “Come out!” Jonah shouted as he tried to discover where the driver was hiding. “It’s no use hiding in the cow grass, I can see your eyes. Come out or you’ll have one pistol and your passenger the other!”

  “Leave him be,” the driver said as he crawled from under the carriage, still holding his long whip as he got to his feet. “You make a mistake robbing us, you’ll be hunted from here till Christmas.” The driver stared at the mask with its charcoal smile. “Lord Malpas will have you hanged for doing this.”

  “He’ll have me hanged if I don’t. Out of the way, my good fellow, I am a highwayman of distinction.” Jonah aimed the pistol at the man’s head. “Turn to the carriage and you will see nothing. Ask no questions, tell no lies. Now turn your head or take the lead.”

  “Why, you’re nothing but a lad, fresh from his mother’s arms. Find a horse first, then you can be a famous highwayman.” The driver cursed as he turned to the carriage, taking hold of the rim of the wheel and
looking to the ground.

  Jonah took the pistol by the barrel and viciously whipped the stock across the back of the man’s head. “Never turn your back on a stranger,” he said calmly as the man slumped to the floor.

  From inside the carriage Jonah could hear two men in deep conversation. They spoke eagerly in hushed tones, just above a whisper. Jonah waited, and in the glow of the carriage lamp saw a man lean forward towards the dark shadow on the other side of the coach. The talking continued, then the lamp was hastily snuffed out and the carriage plunged into darkness.

  “Come out! No tricks! I have a pistol primed and ready for each of you,” Jonah shouted, his voice tinged with apprehension. There was no reply. In the eerie silence Jonah waited. “I’ll tell you again. Come out or I’ll fire and you’ll take your chance with the lead.”

  “You can fire what you like, boy, but the rope will stretch your neck like any other and I’ll have you drawn and quartered with your heart black-tarred and put on a stake in St. Giles’ yard. That’ll show the world what happens to thieves who stop a minister on his way to Parliament.” The words shot at Jonah with breathless speed. “And if you make me get down from my carriage, then I will chase you through Conduit Fields myself and whip your backside all the way to Tyburn. Do you hear me, boy?” The voice billowed from the dark of the carriage into the night.

  “Step down and stand. I care not for who you are or for what power you serve,” Jonah replied, pressing his finger to the cold metal of the trigger. “I listen to no authority but my own and it is to me that you will answer.” He stepped away from the sight of the door and raised the pistol, ready to fire. Quickly, he looked back up the lane and listened for any sound of approaching horses. But the night was empty, as if all life had been scourged from the earth. The coachman lay in the long grass, arms outstretched as if dead. “This is your last chance,” Jonah continued as he held the pistol steady. “Stand down and let me see your faces.”

  The carriage gently rocked as a man stepped into the night. He wore a long French coat with white ruff sleeves. Jonah stared from behind his disguise into the jet-black eyes of his victim. He was a small, thin man with pinched cheeks, a thick bushy brow and a voice that did not fit his frame.

  “Tell your companion to step down,” Jonah said.

  “I travel alone,” Lord Malpas said curtly as he looked at Jonah. “I take it this is what you want.” He held out a small leather purse.

  “I heard you talking to someone, saw his shadow in the carriage. Tell him to come out.”

  “There is no one there, your eyes deceive you. I am alone, I always travel alone. Now take the money and be off.”

  “I don’t want your false money, one purse for your gold and another full of painted lead weights. Do you think I am that stupid? You lot are all the same, carry two purses for fear of being robbed. Now tell your companion to stand down.” Jonah stared at Malpas, aiming the pistol at his head. “I mean it, tell him to stand down.”

  “How many times have you to be told that I travel alone?”

  “I heard you talking, saw the shadow,” Jonah replied.

  “Then see for yourself. Search the carriage, you will find no one. What you heard was the wind rattling around in the emptiness of your head.” Lord Malpas brushed the falling white particles of dust from his coat.

  “And when I look you will run off, bleating like a January lamb. First, your purse. Throw it to the ground,” said Jonah. Malpas threw the purse to the ground and slowly folded his arms as he calmly looked around. “Now the other. The one with the real money in and not the lead.”

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you, boy? Your hanging will certainly be well attended by everyone you have fleeced in your young life. Such a waste. I could always use someone as talented as you.” Malpas slowly took a fat purse from his waistband and threw it to the floor.

  “Now tell your friend to come out of his dark hole and stand before me,” Jonah insisted as he stepped towards Lord Malpas.

  “How many time do you have to be told? I am alone,” Malpas shouted in frustration, his voice echoing across the fields.

  Jonah stepped even closer to him and put the pistol to his temple. “Quiet! Face to the dirt, my lord, and then I will see if you tell the truth.”

  “And let you shoot me in the back of the head?”

  “I may shoot you in the side of the head if you don’t do what I say,” Jonah hollered as he pressed the gun deeper into his temple.

  Malpas dropped to his knees and buried his face in the damp of the soft brown earth. Jonah Ketch stealthily edged his way to the carriage door, one eye staring at the crumpled body of Lord Malpas snorting in the muck of the Highgate Road.

  “Last chance,” he said as he crept closer to the door. “Out now or I’ll fire.”

  “It’s empty, fool,” Malpas muttered. “There’s nothing in there for your kind.”

  “Then I’ll see for myself,” Jonah replied, and he quickly spun on his heels and pointed his pistol into the dark void of the carriage. For several long, dark moments his eyes tried to search the gloom. His instinct told him that there was another presence close by. But though he looked again and again, his eyes scourging each corner of the carriage, there was no one to be seen.

  It was then that Jonah saw a thin black case nestled on the fine red canvas seat. In the light of the moon he could clearly see the gold dragon clasp that pulled the two sides tightly together. The tight marbled skin that covered the case shone like the back of a flattened snake, its white ivory handle burning bright against the black leather.

  As Jonah reached for the case, a sudden feeling of fear ran up and down his spine. Like a chilling nightmare, several long red tongues flashed before his eyes. A deep voice warned Jonah: “LEAVE . . . ME . . . ALONE!”

  “What’s in the case?” Jonah asked nervously as he turned to Lord Malpas.

  “Nothing for you, boy. Just some papers. Now take the money and go, there is nothing else for you here.”

  “That’s too fine a case for papers. Something tells me there’s more in there.” Jonah turned to look into the carriage.

  “It’ll do you no good, boy. Take that case and you’ll have more to fear than the gallows,” Malpas said. He slowly got to his feet, slipped his hand into the back of his frock coat and edged his way, inch by inch, towards Jonah.

  There was a sudden flash of bright steel as Malpas lurched at Jonah, stabbing a long, thin blade deep into his arm. Jonah uttered a shrill scream and gasped with pain, then in one movement lashed out at Malpas and struck his face with his pistol.

  Malpas fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding face.

  Malpas made no sound. He lay facedown in the road, his long raven hair scattered like thick twigs in the mud.

  Jonah grabbed the black jet handle of the knife and tried to pull it from his arm. It dug even deeper, as if it had a mind to bury itself into his flesh. At his feet lay the two purses; he swiftly picked them from the ground and put them in the pocket of his coat. Then he stopped and listened, unsure if he could hear a jangle of horse-metal in the distance. Quickly he leant into the carriage and took hold of the ivory handle of the black case, lifting it from the seat and into the night air.

  Jonah stopped at the well. He put the case on a large stone and bathed the knife, still embedded in his arm, in the water from Black Mary’s Well. The cold chilled his flesh as it ran along the polished steel of the blade. Again he tried to pull the blade from the wound and again it gripped tighter, pulling itself deeper into his flesh. Again he heard the voice as he struggled to vanquish the pain that fired through each nerve: “LEAVE . . . ME . . . ALONE!”

  The voice spoke as if it came from all around him and within him at the same time. A voice that made each hair on the back of his head rise from its place and stand terrified at the sound. It was a voice that shuddered his spine and turned his feet to lead, the frightening voice of childhood that would lurk in dark corners and beneath his bed. He grabbed
the case and tried to run, forcing one foot to fall in front of the other as he picked his way through Conduit Fields towards the lights of the city.

  III

  THE BULL AND MOUTH

  The faint echo of footsteps followed Jonah like a dark shadow as he ran feebly through Bloomsbury Square. The last stragglers of the sky panic huddled on the steps of St. George’s church.

  Jonah stopped and looked back, convinced that the militia were nearby, that Lord Malpas had somehow raised the alarm and called out the troops. He rubbed his eyes with a bloodied hand, wiping beads of salt from his brow as he panted into the cold night. The knife throbbed and burnt in his flesh.

  It was then, as he looked back to the north, that he saw what appeared to be a large dog or wolf sniffing at the road outside the iron railings of Bedford House. It stalked up and down, its snout ferreting amongst the piles of fallen leaves as it shivered and twisted in the bright glow of the moon. It fixed itself on a scent and then stood on its hind legs and began to walk across the square towards him.

  Jonah stared in amazement as the figure got nearer and nearer. He stepped back into the shadows and watched. The figure stopped every few feet and sniffed the air, first from the north and then from the south.

  Jonah walked faster, turning every few steps to cast a long glance behind him. The figure was again on all fours, its face buried in the earth. Quickly, Jonah ducked into the doorway of the baker’s shop. He saw the figure get to its feet, then stoop again and place a hand on the ground as if feeling for the heat of each step that Jonah had taken.

  Jonah could see the sign for the Bull and Mouth and hear it squeaking on its rusted hinges. He rushed towards the inn, seeking refuge, and entered quickly. He slammed the door behind him and slid the short wooden beam into its keeper to prevent its opening. He twisted his coat from his back, hanging it over his shoulder to cover the knife. His fingers entwined in the weave, hoping to dry the drops of blood from his hand. Then he turned, not knowing who would be behind him or what welcome he would receive.