by G. P. Taylor
The magician quickly fell asleep, snoring and shuddering in his dreaming. Jonah watched him, fascinated by his twitching and moaning and the way he curled his thick, dirt-encrusted beard in his fingers.
Far in the distance he heard the jail bell call the ninth hour, its dull thumps rumbling through the passageways and down the landings to the deep dungeon. Jonah lay back against the fireplace and looked about the room. It was stark yet warm, hostile yet with a strange sense of peacefulness. Dungeon, palace or monastery, it mattered not, all he knew was that they had to escape. He turned to look at Malachi again. All fear of him had waned; he stared simply at an old man dressed in a long black coat and magician’s hat, his curse-bag strung temptingly from his neck.
As the thought of fleecing his companion for what he had in the bag came to him, Jonah pleaded with himself to leave the man alone. Malachi had pledged friendship—on the other hand, the consideration of what treasure lurked a touch away made him drool. After all, he thought to himself, wasn’t he going to set the old man free? Surely this could be a down payment for freedom, a small price to pay for rescuing him from the gallows.
He reached out towards the bag, then stopped, pulling back his hand and squeezing it into a tight fist, hoping the desire to rob Malachi would leave him.
The battle raged in his heart. Still willing himself to prevent his fingers from slipping the clasp and furrowing through the sack, lightening it of every precious stone and trinket it might contain, he touched the bag. Malachi didn’t move. Jonah edged his hand close, his fingers instinctively making their way to the clasp. It was as if Jonah were watching someone else, a hand like his, yet not his own. Not wanting to take part and yet loving what he did—this was as much a part of his life as drawing his waking breath. His fingers took hold of the tiny clasp that had been warmed by the glow of the fire. It felt fleshlike in his touch, as if from within it he could sense the beating of a heart. Jonah stopped and looked at Malachi—he slept on, moaning and drooling like a small child, unaware of the fleecing taking place under his long sniffling nose. With three fingers, Jonah lifted the catch, slipped the flap and delved into the depths of the bag.
Jonah could sense a multitude of offerings with his fingertips. Suddenly he caressed the cold metal of a thick, stone-encrusted ring. The tip of his finger smoothed its way around the edge, counting the cut stones one by one.
Malachi didn’t move; he snored on. Jonah picked the ring twixt thumb and forefinger, holding his breath as he slipped it silently from Malachi’s curse bag. He cared not for the potions or amulets that brushed against him as he retrieved the heavy signet from the dark depths. It was strangely heavy, and snagged as he lifted it from the bag and pulled it into the light of the fire.
He gave a sudden fearful gasp and fell from the hearth to the cold stone floor, dropping the ring and the dried finger to which it was set. It rolled like a giant’s claw towards the flames. For a split second he thought to leave it to be engulfed. His eyes darted from Malachi to the ringed finger and back again, checking the depth of his slumber. Jonah’s hand darted towards the flames, picked up the finger by its long black nail and firmly plunged it into his coat pocket. Then he slumped back to the fireside and pretended to be asleep.
Cautiously he opened one eye to look at Malachi—the magician slept on. Jonah pulled the finger from his pocket and examined the nicotine-dried skin and crusted fingernail that had been cut from the hand of some poor, unfortunate woman.
XV
TABULA RASA
Solomon danced from step to step of the spiral staircase as he led a procession of seven favoured disciples high into the tower that dominated his Citadel and overlooked the city. He smiled blithely as he looked out through the grubby arched windows. Below him was London.
To the east, the sun feebly edged its path higher, vainly trying to break through the thinning mist as the strands of a glistening rainbow bent from the sky and lit the pinnacles of Fleet Prison.
Tersias and Tara followed on behind Solomon, their hands now tied and the golden dome pushed firmly upon the boy’s head. Dragging his weight, Campion struggled on behind, panting and gasping as he pulled each cumbersome leg up each step.
“Quickly,” begged Solomon. “We have to see our city, speak out upon it and command it with our hearts.”
The seven disciples followed, running to the windows, raising their hands to heaven and babbling like madmen in a language that Tara could not understand. She looked around the lime-washed room. From the high vaulted ceiling, long, hooped chains dangled down. She saw that they were attached to large round baffle boards that could be opened to let in more light along with the London smog. In the centre of the room was a large crystal dome that appeared to be balanced on what was once a wooden barrel. By one of the principal arches was an oak throne, the match of that to which Tersias had been tied in his cell. It was garlanded in fresh lavender and ivy; red petals were strewn about it. By the throne was a long, coffin-shaped wicker basket decorated with sorrel leaves and rue spikes. A suit of purple clothes was dressed upon a headless manikin that stood stiffly by the throne. All was meticulously prepared, neatly pressed and ready for her to wear.
Solomon looked at Tara. “Soon, my dear, this will all be yours.” He crossed the room to the crystal. “Come, see . . . the like of which you may have never seen before, nor ever see again.” He beckoned to Tara to follow him. His disciples were still babbling and chanting as they looked out over London, speaking to the spirit of the city.
Tara slowly crossed the room. It was cold and smelt strongly of lavender. She looked into the large dome-shaped crystal that magnified all around and could see a bright light far below that lit the branches of tree. Suddenly she realised that she had seen this before. Recognition crossed her face as she clenched her teeth and fought back a swirling dizziness that spun in her head.
“That’s right, my dear, you remember well,” Solomon said as he began to untie her wrists. “It is the room of the locusts and that which you see is the tree of life. Soon they will be ready and from this place they will begin their journey across the city. They will cleanse it of everyone who does not follow me. From their judgment there will be no salvation.”
Tara didn’t reply. Her eyes were transfixed on a single swirling locust that spiralled up towards her, fixing itself upon the crystal and staring at her through a gigantic black compound eye that glistened at its edges in a multitude of colours. The creature appeared to glare at her, following her movements as she edged around the crystal and away from Solomon.
“It likes you,” Solomon said as he took hold of a baffle chain and began to pull a wooden board away from the high vaulted roof. “See. When the time is right the locusts will rise up from the tree and I will open the panels of the hypnoscope and they will fly up and out of the baffles, from the tower and over the city.” He raised one brow and smiled tightly. “Remember what they can do. No one will escape them. The city will be plucked bare, but we will be safe. The fragrance of our robes will keep them from us.” Tara saw that the cask holding up the crystal had slatted panel doors that ran around the circumference, each locked with a small brass catch in the shape of a shrivelled hand.
Solomon toyed with one of the catches as he stared at her. “So quiet, so thoughtful and never complaining,” he said as he moved towards her. “Look at the creature, see how beautiful a beast it is. I found them myself, searched the known world and for many years have changed them little by little until they are made by my design. In ancient times they would eat the flesh of the field and plagued mankind by stripping the land bare. Now they will plague mankind again, and this time I have given them a taste for different flesh.”
“A man can’t do that,” Tara blurted out. “You’re not the creator of the world, you didn’t set the stars in their place. How can you change the way in which a creature lives? It’s not right.”
“Right and wrong are just different perspectives. There will soon come a time when we will
not need an egg for a chicken and you or I can live on forever by growing a new heart. I have discovered the foundations of life, and with these locusts I will bring an end to the decay of this world and herald the new.” Solomon scoffed as he strutted about the room. “The King has no power and Parliament lines its own pocket. Politicians and princes, they are both the same, men of ignoble birth clambering for recognition. Their time has passed, the clock is now set for the empire of Solomon.”
Tara could see that he was convinced by his own words. Around her the chanting grew louder and louder as the disciples called upon the sun to shed its rays upon the rooftops. Campion gripped Tersias by the collar, and from the corner of her eye she saw the brute dragging the boy across the floor and placing him in the oak throne, strapping his arms to the wooden rests.
“Is she going to join us?” Campion asked.
“Dear Campion appears to be concerned for your future,” said Solomon. “As you can see, we have a pilgrim suit for you to wear. Taking the purple will signify to the world that you are one with us. It is not just an outfit of clothing but a sacrament. In taking this you will denounce who you are and what you once were, it’ll be a new birth with a new family. Come, girl, now is the time.” Solomon took a small silver goblet from his coat pocket and, unscrewing the tight lid, offered the vessel to her. “One sip and an oath and all will be well. You will be dead to the past and alive to the future. All I have will be yours, there is a kingdom waiting and you will be queen.”
Frantically Tara looked around the room for a way of escape. The chanting disciples turned from the windows and gathered about her. She thought of Jonah—lost, unknown, in a different world. She could hear Tersias grunting in the chair, his mouth gagged by Campion, and she began to drown in the mass of disciples who now filed up the spiral staircase and into the chamber.
Pressed to the wall by the throng of faces, Tara held her hands to her eyes, covering them from the blank stares that she now faced from all the disciples. The noise grew louder and louder, turning her mind so that she found it hard to keep to her feet. Before her was Solomon, always a yard away, holding out his hand, offering her the chalice.
“Do this for me, little girl,” he said calmly. She looked towards Tersias, whose screams beckoned her help. “He will be safe. All you have to do is drink the cup and all will be well. Campion will hurt him no more and our protection shall be upon you.”
“NO!” she screamed. She lashed out with her arms to push back the disciples.
“Don’t make us hurt him any more.” Solomon coughed harshly as Tersias let out another deep and painful groan. “Campion has desires towards the lad that he will want to fulfill. He is a cruel man who was born to this work. Please don’t allow him the satisfaction of his heart.”
Tersias screamed again as a disciple took hold of her arm and twisted it stiffly up her back. “Drink . . . drink . . . drink,” they began to chant, and they pushed her towards the crystal dome and the staring black locust that looked as if it were desperately scratching at the surface of its prison, trying to break through to her.
Engulfed by the power and the presence of the people, Tara fell to her knees, sobbing for relief from the torment.
“YIELD TO ME!” Solomon screamed.
Tara could no longer think nor hear.
Dully, she could feel her head being held back and the pressing of cold silver against her lips. Only the sensation of stale wine dribbling over her stiffened tongue and the pricking of a myriad of sharpened fingernails against her skin kept her tenuous link to the world. There was no noise, no struggle. The ranting and shaking of Solomon’s disciples ebbed in her mind to a sound like the rustling of leaves on an autumn day. She could make out vague commands and felt her body being twisted and moulded by many hands. There was no pain—not in this place. Here was the room to which she had been dragged many times when the world had threatened her with its intolerable madness. This was her enforced hiding place, a sanctuary of the mind and a bastion for her troubled spirit.
Slowly and painfully, Tara opened her eyes to the brightness of the morning. Sunlight flooded into the room. Before her stood the short figure of Solomon. In his hand he carried a shard of broken looking-glass in which she caught her dim reflection. She had been dressed in the pilgrims’ clothing, the rough purple jacket itching her skin.
Her body felt larger than before, her arms seemed to stretch out into the distance and across the room like long branches.
“You are back in this world?” Solomon asked quietly as he got on one knee and peered closely into her face. “The wine will make you drowsy for two nights, but on the third day you will wake as a new creature, transformed, changed from a cygnet to a swan.” He deepened his voice, speaking slowly and glinting the bright sunlight across her face with the looking-glass. “Listen to me, child. You are dying and I can save you and I can take away the convulsions. Solomon and only Solomon can do this for you. I mean you no harm and in this there is no trick. Listen to my voice, hear my words. I am the only one you can trust, no other. It is I, Solomon, your saviour, your healer, your redeemer. I am the master of your soul and the focus of all your thoughts. When you hear my name, you will rejoice. For me there will be no disobedience. Listen to my voice.”
Tara could not escape his words; they were like pounding fists that hammered the mind, beating her resistance further away as the hissing of the snake grew louder and louder. “Tersias,” she asked softly. “What of the boy?”
“He is safe. The boy is by your side. No harm will come to him. I, Solomon, will save him.”
“Solomon will save him . . .” She repeated the words over and over, knowing them to be true, knowing them to be the only words that would ever matter. “Solomon . . . ,” she muttered to herself, and the word sounded through her body like a shimmering light as a heavy dark slumber climbed through her veins, numbing every muscle and enveloping her in a bruising blackness.
“Sleep, my child, and wake to a new life.” Solomon spoke in the tone of a prayer, and he summoned Campion to help him lift Tara into the yew coffin. Together they bundled her clumsily into the long basket that had been lined in purple silk and strewn with goose feathers. Tara didn’t stir; she was gripped by the trance from the chalice. Solomon roughly took a clump of her red hair in his hand, pulling the long strands through his fingers. “This is not right,” he said as his voice trembled. “Have someone shave her head and wipe the paint from her face, then she shall be . . . perfect.” He laughed as he closed the lid to the basket and tied the leather thongs at each end, securing them tightly. “Such a boyish face, there is a difference to this child more than in her manner. She was a good choice, Campion, a good choice.”
Campion grunted as he was left to drag the coffin across the room and lift it upon a long window ledge at the far side of the chamber, away from the passage of the sun. “What about the boy?” he asked. “Are we to do the same with him?”
“No wine for him. I cannot meddle with his mind,” Solomon replied as he put the shard of looking-glass into his pocket. “He is far too precious, an oracle as has never been seen before, and he is mine.”
Solomon walked across the room to the oak throne and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Tersias . . . Tersias, can you hear me?” he said, then tapped loudly on the helmet before removing it. “It is time for you to perform for Uncle Solomon, to call upon what powers you desire and tell me no lies.”
Tersias remained silent, his eyelids firmly shut and his lips sealed. He had heard every one of Solomon’s words and listened to Tara as she had been drugged and metamorphosed before him. He knew what would come, not through some celestial knowledge but through experience—experience of desperate men and the desires of their hearts. First would be the pleading for him to speak, then the threats and finally the beating. As sure as night would follow day and swallow the summer sun, he knew that Solomon would beg, urge and then coerce him to speak. This man was no different; the pious were noted for their crue
lty.
Campion came to him first, grabbing him by the neck with one hand as he peeled the helmet from him and then prodded him in the eyes with his short fat fingers. “He is definitely blind,” he said to Solomon as Tersias howled in pain. “How can he see the future if he has no sight?”
Solomon cackled and rubbed his hands. “He does not need eyes to see, Campion. His sight is not from this world. There are eyes of creatures we know little about. They can see the future, tell of what will happen. They listen to the ramblings of kings and nations. Every court has its own spirit, every city a fallen angel. These seraphic beings know the ways of men and ordain our future. Tersias can hear them speak, he can talk to them and they share with him what many would die to hear.” Solomon looked around the room anxiously; his shoulder twitched several times as if to rid itself of some invisible creature that sat upon it. “For all we know, we could be in the presence of a legion of such beings. They could be all around, listening to our words and guiding our thoughts. Think of it, Campion—we could be puppets to a far higher master. All that I desire could be the whisperings of some devil.”
Campion looked about him, wiping his arms as if to rid himself of invisible demonic strands. He glanced at Tersias and then across the chamber to the wicker coffin, rubbing the tiredness from his face and wrinkling his brow in deep frustration. “Why do we not speak to them ourselves and have done with the boy?”
“If only that were possible,” Solomon replied as he took hold of Tersias by the chin. “If only . . .”
Tersias opened his eyes and looked up. From far away he could hear the wingbeats of the Wretchkin flying over the city. “Tersias . . . I can see you,” it called softly as it spiralled above him. “I can see your face.”
