by G. P. Taylor
Suddenly the man turned and looked at her candle as he squinted through his fingers. “You have no right to bring that here. It’ll take me a week to see again when it is gone. In this place you see through your fingertips, you let the light of the mind shine out through your eyes—for what they are worth.” He paused. “Eyes without the light have no use. Do you have a name, girl?” the man asked, as if he didn’t want to pursue his thoughts any further.
She looked at the candle flame and hoped against hope that it would burn slowly to give her more time in the light. She cupped her hand to one side to save the flame from the cold draught that swept in from the door.
“What does my name matter in times like these? I am no longer who I was and I await an uncertain future.”
“In polite company you always know the name of the one you will . . .” He stopped and looked to the flame, his bloodshot eyes now accustomed to the glare. “My companion has been gone for many days, weeks, years . . . so many, I don’t know. I can tell neither night nor day and all I can hear is the whispering that plagues me through the walls. I have kept something of him to keep me from loneliness. I find myself talking to him in those dark hours when sleep has gone. He is the most marvellous company.” The man panted, as if short of breath. “My very own manikin,” he muttered. “If only I could move the lips . . .”
Tara took another step further back, aware that the man oozed a madness that consumed his mind. She looked around the cell for a weapon. By her feet she saw a long, thick bone picked dry by teeth that had even gnawed at the marrow. She grabbed it quickly and held it behind her back as she stepped further away from him.
The man then frantically rummaged in the depths of his ragged bed, pulling at long strands of rotting fabric as he burrowed his face into the dank cloth. “It must be here, I was speaking to him only hours ago . . . must be here, must be here,” he said again and again as he dug into the bed like a scavenging rat.
The chamber was filled with a sense of his lunacy. Panic started to shake Tara’s body: first her feet tingled with tiny spikes of heat that jabbed at the flesh like a million burning spines, then the numbness edged its way higher and higher, twisting her stomach and shouting at her to run. She knew that at any moment she would have to face something diabolical.
Without warning the man turned quickly and like a gleeful child thrust a severed head towards her, his hand stuffed in the neck hole. “This is it!” he said, smiling, his voice echoing around the stone chamber as he jangled the severed head before Tara like some tattered puppet. “In death as in life, Mister Moab keeps good company.”
Tara moved further away, clutching tightly to the long, thick bone that she held behind her. She stared into the one open eye of the severed head that bobbed up and down on the man’s hand, its tongue slobbering in and out with each jerk.
“Mister Moab is pleased to see you,” the man said as his eyes widened with a sense of affection and he grinned at the head of his friend. “Say good morning to the lady, Mister Moab . . .”
The man giggled as he pulled Moab’s beard and watched his lifeless jaw go up and down. He mimicked the dead man’s voice, bringing the sound of life to dead lips. “Good morning, my lady,” the man squeaked in a high-pitched voice, still pulling on the beard to move the jaw. “Give Mister Moab a kissy-kiss-kiss . . .”
“Mister Moab keeps you well,” Tara said as she stepped back even further away from the man. “I have never been one for kissing a stranger, even one so handsome as Moab.” Her voice quivered. “Perhaps some other time . . . when we have gotten to know each other more.”
“Lady’s frightened, Moab,” the man said, lifting the head to his face and conversing with it eye to eye. “Doesn’t like the look of you, afraid your beard will ruffle her pure white skin.” The man held the head of Mister Moab up towards the light of the candle that shone down from the top of the stairway. “She’s hiding behind the light, afraid of the dark.” He began to whisper in a low gruff voice that echoed in the cell like a hoarse bark. “Why do they always think the light will protect them, Mister Moab? Solomon sends them to see me, every one with a candle, and they’re all the same. Stand up there, candle in hand, brave as Punch. Oh, to see their faces as they hang on to the last seconds of the wick before they are consumed by blackness.” The man looked at Tara and saw that the candle had burnt to a short stub in her fingers. “Not much of the light left. . . . Then Mister Moab can sneak up in the darkness and steal that kiss. What do you think she’ll taste like, Mister Moab?” He shook the head back and forth. “The thin ones are always salty—brine for blood, brine for blood.”
The stub of the candle began to melt in Tara’s fingertips. She looked around her, trying to see the layout of the chamber, striving to memorise every detail. She knew that at any moment she would have to face the madman and the darkness alone.
“I know every inch of this cave,” the man said. “My eyes are comforted by the darkness and like a blind man I am aware of everything around me. There is no stumble in my feet or fear in my beholding of what is to come. But what of you?” he asked, looking at the light that flickered in her hand. “What do you fear of what is to come?”
Tara pressed herself against the cell wall as close to the doorway as she could go. She held the bone in her hand like a large bludgeon, waiting to lash out should the man come close.
In that second the madman struck at Tara. The flame jumped to the long black locks of the skull and set the remains of the lunatic’s frock coat on fire. Tara gripped the bone and lashed out at his silhouette as flames danced on the floor below him. He dropped Moab, who clattered down each step, rolling and smiling his grim, one-eyed smile. The madman then fell facedown against the steps, struck unconscious by the blow from the bone.
The cell glowed with burning embers that lit each corner and every crevice. For the first time Tara could see the gore-stained walls and bone-scattered floor that seemed to go on into the dark distance forever.
“FIRE!” she shouted as she banged the bludgeon against the door, demanding to be heard. The room filled with black sooty smoke. In seconds she could hear the clattering of the bear as his footsteps pounded towards the chamber door along the narrow passageway.
Campion slid the lock from the door and pushed against the heavy beams. Smoke billowed through the frame as he pushed it open to peer inside.
Seeing her chance, Tara lashed out again, thrashing Campion over the back of the head. He paused, not knowing what had happened. As he slowly turned his head and looked at Tara, she struck again, this time across the forehead with a powerful blow.
Campion buckled at the knees, falling forward majestically like a toppled tree as he collapsed onto the madman. Tara did not wait—she jumped over the pile of flesh, leapt into the passageway and ran towards the stairs.
XII
FECKWIT
The light from the fire crept under the stable door and into the muddied yard where Jonah stood. As he peeked through the dingy broken glass, the stable beckoned, warm and inviting, and stirred in Jonah a yearning for a home.
In the alleyway where he had searched for Malachi, the broken ground spoke of his beating with its churned mud and single gold coin sparkling against the ruddy black, the leftover from the thrashing by the Solomites. Jonah picked the coin from the dirt, rubbed it clean and placed it in his pocket—not to keep it for himself, he thought, but to hold it as a reminder of what had gone before. The night was dark and cold; the chill from the river was icy and cruel and nipped the feet through his thin boots.
Jonah carefully pulled back the long wooden door handle. Inside he heard the catch leap with a quick rattle as the door sprung open. Quickly he stepped inside, pulling the door shut and sliding down the wooden lock. It gave a deep and satisfying thud as the catch dropped home. He looked left then right, checking to see if he was alone. Just a few feet away, standing defiantly by the fireplace, was the carriage that Tersias had been carried upon and the boy’s cage. It had been
pushed close to the wall; the door to the cage was open, dangling on broken hinges. The remains of the boy’s bed were scattered on the cart. Jonah hesitated; he rolled his bottom lip between his fingers, pinching his skin until it hurt. It was my fault, he thought to himself, as the weight of all that had gone before came back to him. Tara lost . . . Maggot injured . . . Malachi murdered . . . the boy Tersias captured. . . . The thoughts swirled through his skull, with Jonah firmly in the middle of every calamity. He closed his eyes and rolled back his head as he leant against the wall.
It was then, in his tired mind, that the red wolf-eyes appeared. Through the darkness, Jonah saw the haunting face of the creature Griselda had called Lycaon. He opened his eyes, trying to erase from his mind their burning gaze.
In panic he looked around the stable. The walls shone with the glow from the fire that gave a golden edge to poverty and turned the stable into a glimmering chamber. But even in the half-light of those warm and gentle fire embers, Jonah could see the face of the half-man half-creature leering a smile of welcome, telling him they were kindred spirits.
Then the voice of Griselda came to him: “Tread carefully, young Jonah, for you are being stalked. . . . A wolf roams about, waiting to kill and destroy. It’ll take more than a knife to save you from its treachery.”
Jonah instinctively grabbed for the Mastema in the pocket of his frock coat. He gripped its warm handle and sighed a deep, fretful sigh. Taking the knife from his pocket, he put the blade to his lips and kissed it. As he placed the sharp tip on his lips, his eyes closed as if pressed shut by the corpse-washer, and Jonah fell into a deep slumber.
The sound of horses thundering across damp ground filled his head. Jonah opened his eyes as he was thrown to the ground of a clearing in the depths of a large forest. To his left and right other riders jumped from their horses and gathered around him, forming a tight phalanx.
“It comes for the King!” one shouted as he drew his sword, beating the hilt against his small shield, then wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of a chain-mail glove.
“Let me stand and fight!” shouted a man who gripped Jonah by the shoulders, trying to pull him out of the way.
Jonah turned and looked into the man’s bloodied face. “No, my lord—we fight for you,” he said as if he knew who the man was and why he should be prepared to give his life for him.
Looking down, he saw the Mastema in his hand. Half a league away he could hear the cry of a beast as it ran through the forest. Jonah looked up at the grey cloud-filled sky—it seemed so ordinary and everyday. Except a beast stalked the warriors and their King, probing their weaknesses and waiting to strike. The hunters had become the hunted, chased like squawking geese through a forest of elm and ash and broken yew that clawed at their faces.
“It is me it seeks,” said the King as he tried to push through his guards to stand alone and face the beast.
“No, I shall take it first,” Jonah cried as he broke from the guards and charged the beast, clutching the knife in his hand. “In the name of the King you shall die,” he screamed, running headlong towards the large grey wolf that bared its bloodied teeth in anticipation of his folly.
Before Jonah could strike one blow, the hound had leapt upon him, taking his wrist in its teeth and tearing at the flesh. It tossed him from side to side, and when it seemed as if all life had left him, it dropped him to the ground.
The beast turned towards the King and the phalanx grew tighter to save the King, swords drawn and shields proud yet without breastplates or helmets. For half a day they stood, never moving, always facing the beast. The wolf lingered, staring through its wild eyes and waiting for the fall of darkness.
Jonah lay nearby in a brash of nettles, the breath knocked from his body, one arm tattered and torn, his flesh ripped by wolf-teeth. He turned his head away from the beast. There, a finger’s length from his hand, was the dagger. It begged him to reach out. Silently, inch by inch, he moved his hand towards the blade, until he could grasp it with his fingers.
It was then that the wolf saw him move. It turned and leapt upon him, snapping at his neck. Without hesitation, Jonah plunged the dagger into the wolf’s chest, and blood trickled through its thick coat. As Jonah pierced the creature with a final blow, its eyes stared into Jonah’s and beseeched him to stop. Then it fell upon him, soft, warm and moist. Jonah could feel the last beats of its heart as it pressed against him. Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . it sighed a final sigh and dropped its head against his chest as the ghost was given up.
“Malpas!” cried the King.
Jonah awakened and opened his eyes to find he was not dead. There before him was Malachi, smiling.
“Feckwit,” shouted Malachi as he leant against a homemade crutch and balanced on one leg. “You frightened me half to death standing there tranced and muttering away like a lunatic. I was sleeping in the back room.”
“I must have dreamt . . . ,” Jonah stuttered. “You’re alive?”
“Ah! But they left me for dead. Stole my boy and the girl, beat me into the mud and then made off. Takes a lot more than a bunch of Solomites to kill old Magnus.” Malachi brushed the dust from Jonah’s coat as the thought of how close to death the beating had taken him was cast across his bruised face. “At least you’re unharmed. Come and sit by the fire. It has been a long night. I have lost everything and from the look of it so have you.” There was warmth in his voice and kindness in the hand that pushed Jonah towards the wooden chair by the fire.
Malachi watched the boy take the seat and shrug off the cold night. “We could be friends, companions and fellow villains. Couldn’t we?” He twittered on, not waiting for the boy to reply. “Are we not thrown together by malicious circumstances? A single willow whip will always bend, but two yoked together can never be broken.” Malachi smiled at Jonah and offered a hand. “To what is to come,” he said, the tone of his voice tinged with hesitation as he thought of an uncertain future.
Here they were, magician and thief, a strange unholy union of need. Malachi had been struck by the realisation that he had no one to call to, no one in his life whom he could call a friend. He meant to change this. As he looked at the boy Jonah, he couldn’t help recalling the other boy, the blind oracle Tersias, to whom his fate had bonded him but whom he had treated so callously. Perhaps this boy, Jonah, had come to his stable to offer him another chance. And perhaps all was not lost with Tersias.
Jonah offered his hand and exposed his blood-sodden shirt cuff. Malachi saw his surprise and pulled back the sleeve of Jonah’s coat, exposing the gnawed flesh.
“You have been bitten, a large dog I would say. When did this happen?” Malachi reached to the bag of talismans strung from his shoulder.
“It didn’t. . . . It was but a dream,” Jonah said as he pushed the hair away from his eyes and stared at the torn skin.
“A dream with fangs . . . that bites so deep, it rips your flesh. This looks like more than a dream to me,” Malachi said softly as he took a long piece of crimson cloth from the bag and wound it around Jonah’s arm. “This dream of yours, did you feel as if it were alive?”
Jonah looked at the glowing embers of the fire, hoping the light would warm his chilled heart. “I could see everything, I could feel the breeze on my face and the sweat running down my spine, it was as if—”
“As if you were there?”
“You know of these dreams?” Jonah asked as he winced, the pain thumping through him like firebrands. “There was a wolf. I was with the King and I had to protect him from the beast.”
“And you were the one who felt called to stand between the two of them?”
“I killed the wolf with the dagger I stole from Malpas. It is the Mastema.” Jonah looked at Malachi as he finally finished binding his arm.
“That is a name to conjure with . . . the Mastema. I’ve heard of it. Who told you that name?”
“It was a woman called Griselda, I met her tonight—she told me . . .” Jonah stopped speaking and looked
to the floor.
“I have heard stories about this Griselda, she lives at Strumbelo House, by the Thames at Chelsea,” Malachi began as he laughed to himself. “All you need now is Magnus Malachi.”
“Then you better have this back,” Jonah said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver wolf-spoon that he had taken from Tersias. “I had a mind to sell it and laugh at you even more, but after tonight . . .” Jonah paused, uneasy in his manner, not knowing what to say. “Something . . . something inside me has shouted at me to give it back to you.”
“Then I shall have a trinket from Malpas, but it won’t make up for the loss of Tersias. . . . I should have taken better care of him, but he frightened me. He’d look at you with those cold, lifeless, blind eyes and they could see the depths of your soul. No secrets can be kept from that boy and Solomon will have his heart exposed to all the world if he keeps Tersias from me.”
“And how will you get him back?” Jonah asked as he pulled the chair closer to the fire to let the crackling coals warm his bones.
“Don’t ask me how, it’ll come later. All I know is that I want the boy back and the boy I will have.” Malachi paced the floor and twisted the silver spoon in his hand, his fingers scratching at the crest of the wolf-head.
“What does the prophet want with him?” Jonah asked as he pulled off his tight boots and rubbed his feet.
“Solomon has plagued this city for two years. At first he cleared the streets of the vagabonds and scoundrels. He preached of transformation, of how he could take a broken man and turn him into a gentleman. The purple fool believed we were not to be left in our impoverished state and that only he could save us. As time went on, anyone who spoke out against him simply vanished. The rumour was,” he whispered, looking around the stable as if he was being overheard, “he had creatures at his control that could rise up from the ground and drag the detractors to hell.”
