Tersias the Oracle

by G. P. Taylor

  “We are here, my dear girl,” he said as they turned from Drury Lane into Wild Street. “The Citadel—your new home.” He stood on the bottom step in front of a tall, newly built stone building with a fine pavement that edged onto the muddy street. “The pilgrims give everything to me. Each stone was purchased with their blood, sweat and fear,” he whispered to Tara as hand by hand he slowly wound up the leash, jerking her closer. “There is no turning back. As soon as you step across the threshold, you will never be the same again. Life starts here—the boring, mundane drudgery of your existence is at an end and your education begins.”

  She snarled at him, biting on the gag that choked her words. Tara could clearly see hand-cut marks on the corner of each stone that resembled the outline of large beetles crawling along the white mortar line.

  Campion pushed open the two black iron doors to reveal the red tile floor of the hallway. He groaned in pain as the wound to his palm gaped open. Solomon dragged Tara in from the street. “You can be a part of this,” he said, pulling back her head so she was forced to look up at the ornate carved ceiling high above them. “I find art such a powerful force. It invokes so much emotion—love, joy . . . pain, suffering.”

  As the iron doors slammed shut behind them, the bell-like clanging resounded through the high vaults and along the long corridor that led into a cavernous blackness that appeared to go on and on forever. Campion dragged Tersias out of sight, holding him like a puppet by the scruff of the neck as he flopped from side to side, bound and gagged.

  To Tara’s right was a vast staircase, and from somewhere above, Tara heard the distant sound of softly sung words calling to them.

  “They are singing in welcome,” Solomon said as he began to untie the gag. “If you scream, it will take away the moment.” He looked at her intensely, eyeing every inch of her face and smiling smugly to himself. “Remember, this will never happen again. Life has to be lived, each second enjoyed and not endured.” He stopped and turned back to the doors they had entered by. His shaking hand drew Tara’s stare as he pointed to them. “See, there is no escape. One way in and one way out. Each door weighs as much as a carriage and not even someone with your criminal intent could force those locks. Don’t think of escape—it would be futile. Even a ghost would need a key to escape from the Citadel.”

  The singing grew louder, filling the domed hallway with the sound of shrill voices. “Take my hand and I will guide you to a place of delight and splendour. I’m sure even you could not resist its charm.”

  Several faces appeared on the long white balcony that ran from the staircase around the vaulted chamber above them. Tara spat the gag from her mouth and took a deep breath, thinking that this was her chance to lunge at Solomon and bite the apple from his thin turkey neck with its folds of hanging skin.

  “It would be a worthless gesture,” Solomon said, reading her thoughts. “This is part of your fate. Do you think all this happened by chance? You have been brought here by a force far beyond your imagination and our lives will be joined forever.” He began to walk higher, a step at a time, each pace falling to the rhythm of the words sung by the heralds. He pulled on the leash and Tara followed. “You are here to be one of us, to leave behind the crime and grime and to be enchanted by higher things.”

  As they climbed higher, the singing grew louder. Tara became aware of a thousand faces staring out from the balcony, each lit by a single candle clasped in bright white hands etched in purple bands. The singing became intense, churning her insides and chiding her to free her voice; she had to swallow back the desire to join their singing.

  Tara wanted to scream, to break the spell that was being cast over her and run from the Citadel and into the streets.

  She looked at each face as she stumbled from step to step, now just two treads from the top of the stairway that led to a passageway tiled with jewelled marble that glistened in the candlelight. A boy caught her eye with a bright smile on his ruby lips. He held out his hand, offering her the candle, and she reached out with her bound hands, hoping to touch the flame.

  “It’s this way,” Solomon said sharply. “There is something far more exciting here than the offering of a candle. You mark my words, I will show you something that will illuminate your very soul.”

  The singing stopped. With one breath, the choir snuffed the candles, and wisps of deeply scented smoke billowed to and fro, rising in black spirals. At the far end of the passageway, Tara could see a shaft of light pouring onto the bleak slabs from a half-open doorway. The beams danced over the cold stone floor and etched shadows against the white stone walls.

  “We shall walk this journey together,” Solomon said as he untied her hands with his long, cold fingers and took the leash from her neck. “You are amongst friends, or should I say family?”

  “Let me go, old man!” She spat at him and stepped back, away from his beady, glaring eyes. “I have friends who will come for me and cut you to pieces for what you’ve done . . .”

  “You mean the boy who ran away like a scalded cat?” Solomon laughed, his voice echoing through the Citadel. “For you that world you left is over. You will either follow me as a disciple or be sweet meat for my greatest experiment.” Solomon scratched his chin as he looked her up and down and thought deeply to himself. He gazed at her mud-soaked boots and boyish breeches and smiled. “I think I can trust you. Something tells me you are different from the rest, you have a flame about you that makes me think the desire of your heart is the same as mine.”

  “My desire is to get away from this place and see my own again,” she replied curtly. She pulled the fragments of the gag from her teeth and rubbed the sores on the side of her mouth. Tara had promised herself not to speak, to remain silent and not convict herself with her own tongue. But the desire for insult grew in her throat and the words spilled from her mouth. “The boy needs to be set free. What do you want him for?”

  “Such spirit becomes you. Thinking of others? Such an open heart for one so young. The boy is needed for our future. I need to know the right time and place for . . .” He paused and looked at her again, his eyes searching her face as he explored each feature. “You are such a strange girl, and my inner voice tells me there is more to you than meets the eye.”

  He took her hand, holding it up towards the light and examining it intently. “Strange . . . almost as big as my own, hardened by work from an early age and nails bitten to the quick by worry. Look at the lines,” he exclaimed mockingly as he pretended to read her palm. “A life that will end tomorrow, run over by a carriage full of Ottomans—is that your future, my dear girl? You better stay here with us. Leave the Citadel and you will be in great danger.”

  Solomon cackled, dropped her hand and turned away. For several moments he stood silently looking towards the shafts of light that shone into the blackness of the corridor from the doorway.

  In the hallway behind Tara, the choir had dispersed and silently disappeared down the stairway into the labyrinth of corridors that filled the Citadel. Only one was left—the boy who had offered her a candle. His purple gown hung like a cowl from his shoulders. The boy gestured for her to be silent by putting his finger to his lips and opening his eyes like a peering owl. He pointed to the passageway as if to tell her that her future was before her, then without speaking he turned and was gone.

  Solomon turned back to Tara, unaware of what had taken place. His face was burning red. “I shall show you . . . I have decided to place my future in your hands.” He paused. “Mad, I must be mad—but then again, the whole world is mad and I am the only sane and rational mind in the whole of the city,” he said quietly, as if he spoke to himself. “Oh, yes . . . You must have a name. The name from the world is no good here. I will think of a name, something to describe you. When I get to know you better, I will christen you with a new word and write it upon your forehead for all to see. Your head will be wrapped in purple bands for three months to stop your escaping, and then it will be time.”

  Ther
e was a sudden clomping sound that grew closer and closer, climbing the stone steps from the hallway below. Solomon shook his head, freed from the trance. He peered towards the steps as if awaiting a messenger.

  Campion staggered up the steps. He stood before Solomon and hunched his huge frame as if to give a bow. “Needed . . . ,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “They need you.” Campion rubbed his bandaged hand against his breeches and glanced sideways at Tara. “Time for feeding, and no one knows who to give them next. What about—what about the girl?” Campion looked at Tara and gave a half smile.

  Solomon ignored him and took Tara by the hand and pulled her towards the stairs.

  “Come, child,” Solomon said quickly as he ruffled himself in his purple coat and preened the tufts of his hair with his hand. “I have worked for years to see this night and all that I have ever wanted has been given to me. Now I will share it with you.”

  Together they walked quickly down the long flight of stairs to the entrance hall with its large black doors and high ceiling. Solomon turned quickly, pulling Tara into a long, dark corridor with no light. On and on he pressed, slowly descending into the depths of the earth.

  Tara noticed that on both sides of the passageway were narrow doorways; they were lit by small flames encased in black holders that allowed only a chink of light to illuminate each handle. Tara could hear the sound of faint crying as she passed each door.

  “Not much further,” Solomon said excitedly. “Soon be at the growing-room, soon you’ll be able to see what all the fuss is about and see my answer to a world that doesn’t want to listen.”

  The heat grew more intense and the atmosphere became humid and dank. As the passage levelled out, there were no more cell doors, and the sound of crying faded. Far ahead and lit by a flickering lamp was a wooden door with rust-red hinges. In its centre was a large metal plate that hung from a thick nail and swung gently back and forth as if vibrated by the door to which it clung.

  As he got near the end of the passageway, Solomon made a sharp, high-pitched squeal like a large bat returning to its cave. He let go of Tara’s hand and gestured for her to follow with his curled fingers. “This way. . . . Now we are here.” He raised a trembling hand to the metal plate that hung from the door. “You shall see what I have inside.”

  Behind the plate was a thick, round glass window. Tara stared at the door, not wanting to take another step.

  “Campion guards the entrance, so it would be pointless to run and would only anger me even more,” Solomon whispered as he fumbled in his pocket for a key to the door. “You saw the cells that we strode by? They are filled with people who made this journey and decided to run. They are the fools I plucked from the streets and who turned down my offer of kindness and wouldn’t even look at what I wanted to show them. Behind that glass is what is to come. If you follow me, then you will be safe and secure in my love—but if you turn and run, then I have a cell for you and your prospects will be on the other side of this door.” Solomon found the key and placed it in the lock. “As the key turns, you can decide from which side you view the future.”

  Tara hesitated, quickly looking for any sign of Campion.

  “Look through the glass and make me a happy man!” Solomon shouted angrily, before looking at her and calming his voice. “That’s all I ask, nothing more. Then we will talk and eat. Please look.”

  In the half-light, Tara stepped towards the glass and stood on her tiptoes to peer into the room beyond. She gripped the door with her fingers, holding the ledge of the glass to steady herself, as her eyes grew accustomed to the amber glow that filled the room.

  It was as if she stared into an underground garden with sunlight filtering down through the leaves of a tree that stood in the centre of the room. Its bark shone with a silver glow as peels of its thick skin rolled back and fell to the ground. On every branch the brightest, greenest leaves, each the size of a large hand, dangled gloriously and oozed luscious drops of golden sap. On the highest branches was the finest red fruit she had ever seen, bowing the tips of the branches. Hanging from the branches were ten golden plates tied with thick red cords that had been wrapped so tightly into the bark.

  It was then that she spotted the first of the creatures that hung from the lowest of the silver stems. Each one was the size of a small bird, with a small head capped with a spiked horn. Looking closer, she could see their long, folded black wings and barbed feet that gripped tightly to the bark.

  “These are the first,” Solomon said proudly. “I have been waiting eleven years to see this day. Soon there will be a million of my little locusts, and when the day is right, I will release them into the night air and they will do that which has been foretold.”

  “So they will die in the London fog and starve like the rest of us?” Tara replied.

  “My locusts have taken many years of breeding and are now used to the cold. They have been . . . modified. As for what they will eat—” Solomon paused and looked to a wooden barrel by his feet. He lifted the lid, slipped his hand into a slush of rotting meat and picked out a piece of pig rump. Without saying another word he slipped the lock and opened the door, throwing the handful of meat to the base of the tree and then quickly slamming the door shut and locking it as fast as he could.

  One by one the creatures dropped from the tree and grabbed frantically at the meat, fighting each other and pulling and biting at the strands of flesh. Tara gasped as more and more of the beasts appeared from the branches of the tree, fighting ever more frantically for the meat.

  “They cannot resist, it happens every time,” Solomon said cheerily as he took Tara’s hand. “Imagine if I allowed you to step into the room. . . . Stripped of your flesh in less than fifty grains of the hourglass, all that would be left would be your clean white bones. . . . It is a sobering thought and one that I know will help you decide your future.”

  Pressing her nails into the palms of her hands, Tara looked away from the creatures. She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.

  Solomon read the alarm in her face. “I think a night in a chamber with two of my other guests might sway your mind and take away any doubt that lurks within you,” he said, wringing his hands over and over.

  From the far end of the long passageway the lumbering steps of Campion echoed towards them. Tara looked towards the dark, looming shape of the bear as he jangled a set of large brass chamber keys in his squat fingers.

  X

  LEX TALIONIS

  Jonah burst in through the doors of the inn as if the devil himself were hanging from his coattails. The knife wound in his arm had broken open and blood now seeped through his coat sleeve, forming a dark stain that ringed his arm like a mourning band. Fear still gripped him, and thick beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking his long black hair and chilling him to the bone. He felt as if he had been chased, hunted through the night like a frightened fox back to its lair.

  He looked around the room, searching for a friendly face. The inn was empty, except only for a drunken fop who snuggled in his coat. Old Bunce appeared, holding a large flagon of foaming beer, squeezing it with both hands as if he never wanted to let go.

  “Bunce, where’s Maggot?” Jonah asked.

  “Don’t know,” Bunce replied. His nose twitched and sniffed, tickled by the froth. “Where’s Tara?”

  “She’s . . . lost,” Jonah said in a whisper, hoping the old man would fall into a drunken sleep and never wake until Jonah had put the world to rights.

  “LOST?” shouted the old man as he slammed the flagon to the counter, sending a shower of beer high into the room. “How can she be lost? She is not a handkerchief or a watch, you blaggard—she is a woman, flesh and bone. You cannot say she is lost.”

  “We were attacked by the Solomites. They took her and a boy . . . I managed to escape.”

  “You ran away,” Bunce shouted at him as he scrabbled under the counter for the fat black truncheon he would use to soothe fighters to sleep. “I’ve a goo
d mind to wrap this around your head, lad. Give you what you deserve. Lost? Tara lost—and you calmly stroll in here as if nothing has happened?”

  “We were attacked and I escaped. They were set to take Tara and kill me. I saw them beat the magician to the ground until his face was smothered in the mud and one of them was the size of a mountain with hands like a shovel. How could I have fought them off?”

  “You think more of yourself than you do of anyone else, don’t you, boy? I have watched you and cursed your coming here with your fancy ways and tales of thieving. Foul-tongued and feckwit-ted, never to be trusted, just like your father, and smell twice as bad.” Old Bunce swung the truncheon back and forth with one hand whilst the other clutched the flagon of beer. “You can keep away from this place. I’ll go and see old Solomon and pay the price to get her back and I’ll take it from your thieving, every penny.” With that he crashed the truncheon on the oak counter and drunkenly threw the flagon at the wall. “Maggot’s in the back room. He has a visitor. Someone to heal his leg, an old friend and one I trust not to leave him to the dogs,” he slobbered, daubed in beer froth.

  The words stung Jonah like a cold frost. He shrugged his shoulders and slowly paced towards the door. When he looked back, he saw that Old Bunce had folded his arms and fallen into a beer-sleep against the bar, and now snorted like an old sow. And he saw, too, the eye of the fop, staring at him from the folds of his hunting coat. It was a momentary glimpse of a sharp eye peering like a hungry wolf’s. It gazed deep, searching Jonah for any sign of weakness. But when he looked again, the fop slept peacefully.

  Jonah pushed gently against the panelled door that slowly opened into the back room. This was a private place, entered only by Old Bunce and Tara. It was always locked, its treasures kept from prying eyes, never to be shown to the world. Tara never mentioned what was inside. Jonah felt a rising sense of excitement as he pushed the door further, the light from within flooding through the ever-growing opening.