by G. P. Taylor
Jonah pulled and pulled and at last Malachi squeezed himself through the hole and into the fresh air. He choked as the cold night breeze throttled his lungs, burning them with its chilling gasps.
“Run, Jonah, make good your escape,” he said, wheezing breathlessly as smoke billowed from his beard as if he were a tired old dragon. “I cannot go on . . . no further . . . it is finished.”
“You must!” Jonah shouted back above the clanging of the prison bell and the shouts of the militia mounting the ladder. “I will not leave you behind.”
“In this you will have to. I am stuck like a rat in the trap. Wedged by my indulgences to the iron-bracing strap that encircles every pot, and I cannot be free of it,” the magician said, resigned to his fate, and he pulled his curse bag from inside his coat. “Here, take this. It is my spellbinder, the only thing of value I have, it’ll be yours. Live in the stable—look after the boy and forget this night.” Malachi grovelled in the bag, unable to find what he sought. “It has gone . . . I must have . . .”
“No, Malachi. When you were asleep, I lightened your sack and for that I am ashamed. But as the stars bear witness to my words, I will come back for you. Lord Malpas will not have his way.”
“Then run like Spring-heeled Jack and frighten the children as they sleep with your devil’s feet. Leave Magnus Malachi . . . This is a good place to say good-bye.”
“Not good-bye—but till the morning,” Jonah said. “I will come back, fleet-footed and with friends.” He ran quickly across the crimson tiles, vanishing in the darkness as the first militiamen cautiously edged their way higher towards the rooftop.
XVII
STABAT MATER
Solomon stood in the lofty tower of the Citadel, his hands raised to the night sky, his eyes closed as he whispered to himself. The wicker coffin had been dragged to the middle of the room and placed on a bench by the side of the viewing crystal. A bright red candle set on a tall candlestick lit the room. The locust had gone; all that remained was the barb of a chewed foot caught in a tiny fissure in the surface of the glass, as if the creature had consumed all but this minuscule fragment of itself.
The ornate, intertwined lid of the wicker coffin had been placed to one side. Inside the sarcophagus Tara lay motionless, her face whitened with powdered lead, her head shaved, her lips freshly painted with beetle juice. The top of her head was wrapped in tight purple bandages. She smiled softly, dribbles of red lip-ink trickling from her maw as if she had feasted on fresh meat.
The room was crowded with disciples who jostled to scrutinise the corpse, rubbing against each other in their coarse jackets and stiff trousers, men and women alike, all the same, every ounce of uniqueness made bland by their baggy, drab garments and shorn heads. Campion stood in the dark shadows, crunching the bones of each finger and whispering to Tersias. The boy never replied. His hands were tied to the oak throne, the blinding crown placed on his head to serve as a caveat to his compliance.
Solomon turned and in one fluent, catlike movement stepped from the window and dropped to his knees. As if by sleight of hand he brought forth a golden cylinder spiralled to the shape of a fat snake with jewelled eyes. He untwisted the cap and proffered the contents to the gathering.
“Scaramouch . . . Scaramouch,” he muttered. “The girl is dead. For three days she has lain in the tomb, the tendrils of decay wrapped about her. But I, Solomon, can bring her back to life. Remember I saved you all, took you from the streets and gave you a new life. So will I for this child.” His voice squeaked as it trembled from his lips, his body shaking with excitement. “Now is the time.”
The gathering stepped back as Solomon got to his feet and stood before them. He looked at each disciple eye to eye, studying their lined faces and searching out their allegiance as he reminded them of past favours with a glint of his eye. He dripped several large drops onto Tara’s reddened lips and then rubbed them with the tip of his finger.
“So in death, so in life,” he said, gasping between each word in gleeful expectation of what was to come. “Child of death—dying and knowing what is to come—be set free from your old life!”
There was a flash of Chinese powder and a blue flame danced over Tara’s porcelain white skin. Several of the disciples gasped as an exact image of the girl’s face appeared to leap from the coffin and be projected upwards to dance before them in midair.
“See—life returns. My gift to this child as it was to each of you.” Solomon paused theatrically, a faux tear trickling across his face as he sobbed the words like they had come from the depths of his heart. “Life . . . child,” he said as more powder exploded from his hand. The disciples echoed his words: “Be raised up and live!”
Tara coughed as the linctus lifted her from her dreaming, bringing back warmth and life.
“Rise, child, to new life!” Solomon smiled as with one hand he gently lifted her head from the soft purple pillow.
Tara opened her eyes and looked upon all those who stood before her. A soft voice whispered inside her head, telling her she had not truly been dead. Her eyes flickered, grasping at the light and trying to understand the looks of sympathy that confronted her. A pox-faced, shaven-headed girl of her own age smiled peacefully at her, and filled her with joy.
Suddenly Tara realised that the sleep she had endured had transformed her mind, taking her to another realm of understanding where the feelings of the heart could take life and speak for themselves.
Solomon nodded slowly, as if he knew what she was thinking and shared the grace of the experience. “This is life,” he whispered to her, and she saw the words forming on his lips as black sparrows that leapt from his mouth and flew sharply into her heart.
To Tara his voice sounded like that of a father, gentle and strong, warm and lovely. “Solomon,” she replied. “Yes . . . this is life . . .”
The prophet took Tara’s hand and helped her to stand.
“Today, before your eyes, you have seen another miracle. Believe in Solomon! I am the only one who can do this. To this Citadel, many will flock to be set free from the chains of life.”
Turning from them, he took Tara by the arm and led her to the window overlooking the city. She could see the cathedral of St. Paul with its broken dome and the lights of the houses below. The sky was cut in two by the small crescent of a bright new moon that razored across the clouds. In the distance the glowing embers of the faltering Hampstead fire lit the horizon.
Solomon cupped his hands and whispered to her, pausing between each sentence to cast an eye on the disciples behind him. For several moments he muttered to her and stroked her hair as she looked out over the streets. There was a lantern outside the inn on Duke Street that cast its shadowy fingers on a dog that cocked its leg and scurried off into the darkness. All was quiet and still, a perfect reflection of Tara’s heart.
Without the need for a word to be spoken, Solomon and Tara turned to face the disciples. Solomon grinned, his face filled with mirth as he wrung his hands and shivered his shoulders gleefully.
“On the day we give ourselves to the Citadel, we are given a task. Tara is no exception—she, too, must now leave and go forth. She has been given her trial and in that she mustn’t fail me.” Solomon looked at the girl, gently pushing her with his hand as if to give the signal that she must leave and take up her quest.
Tara looked around the room, unsure what to do. She looked at Campion, who for the first time smiled at her. His face looked soft and warm; no longer did she see his fearful eyes and creased forehead. Gone was the angry sneer and look of menace that could freeze the heart. Without thinking, she smiled back at him, catching his eye with her glance. He covered his face with his fat hand as a deep red blush crossed his cheeks and reddened his neck for all to see.
“Leave this place,” Solomon said gently as he rubbed yet another faux tear from his eye. “The door to the Citadel stands open—the streets await and you know what is set for your quest. Go speedily and return quickly . . . I will be with
you in spirit.” He looked to Campion, nodding for him to follow at a distance. “I give you these gifts, you may need them in your pursuit of my desire.”
Solomon held out his empty hands and then, with a subtle twist of the wrist and turn of his right arm, a small silver egg seemed to appear from nowhere. It was banded with a rim of bronze and etched with gold thread. The closer Tara looked, the more she could see the deep, thin gouges that crisscrossed the surface like a million tiny furrows. In that instant, Solomon twisted his left hand twice around and a dark waft of Chinese powder burst from his fingers and hovered before her like a silver angel. There, in his hand, was a small silver wand, again etched in gold with the finest of inlaid thread.
“Take them for your journey. Your mind is prepared, you will know what to do with them,” Solomon said as he pressed them into her hands.
It was as if the east wind stirred inside her chest. Tara could feel a sudden rush of her heart and a tingling ripping through her bones. She set off, rising to her tiptoes as she ran, hardly touching the ground. She charged from the room, down the spiral staircase, and skipped along the halls and passageways of the Citadel towards the large black doors that guarded the sanctuary. Gone were all thoughts of Jonah, Tersias and Maggot. All that filled her swooning mind was Solomon and his glinting tear-filled eyes.
Following the transformation of her heart, everything around her glistened with hopefulness and joy. Gone were all daily fears and troubles, gone were the mindless games she played with herself, the tortuous self-doubt and fears. Nothing mattered. In that silent and holy night, locked away in the stillness of her sleep, all her heartache had been laid to rest. She had been set free.
The stones beneath her feet glistened, urging her forward to the night. With every step, her eyes absorbed the glorious beauty of the place. Every stone spoke of Solomon. In her mind she pictured the man: slight, thin, with deep blue eyes that understood everything about her. With every footstep her mind churned with the possibilities of new life as she raced towards the two large doors that heralded the start of her journey.
It was then that Tara saw his face—the face of the small boy who had offered her a lit candle as he had sung in the choir on the great landing. He hid in the thick black shadow cast by the door. The boy gripped the fine brass handle with one hand; the other was buried deep in the pocket of his oversized purple coat. He looked at her as she came to a sudden halt before him. There was something about his face that she thought she knew; his eyes reminded her of someone close. She dug deep within her memory to match this boy’s face to one she knew, but her mind resisted, closed to anything from the past.
“What is your name, boy?” she asked, panting out the words.
“I have no name, I will only have a name when I die and I am reborn,” he replied. His eyes were downcast as the words stumbled from his mouth.
“So—you are to climb back into your mother’s guts and start life again?” Tara asked mockingly as a thick throbbing suddenly started in her head. “How can someone be born again?”
“You have been reborn, so I am told. You died and Solomon brought you back to life. The outsiders poisoned you and Solomon found you, but you died and it was only because of him that you now live. That is what the master said.” The boy saw Tara grasp the top of her head, pressing the purple bands that covered her skull to try and ease the pain that now beat like a skin drum. “It’ll pass. It always does. The elixir burns and blisters and then bursts out of your head before you will be well. I saw it happen to my mother.”
“How do you know these things?” Tara asked. She held on to the door as her mind swam and eyes burnt with pain.
“It’ll pass, always does,” the boy said again as he took her by the hand and led her to the steps of the Citadel. “I am the doorkeeper. I eat and sleep upon these steps. I will always be here, seeing pilgrims come and go on their journeys. Some go and never return, then Campion goes to find them and brings back their purples and they are seen no more. Will you come back?” he asked as the tower bell rang out nine times.
“I will soon return and we will be friends.” She smiled, and the pain eased as the linctus ebbed from her body. “I have a journey to make for Solomon, nothing will stop me doing what he desires and all my wits tell me to run from this place . . .”
“And run you will—run and don’t come back. It is not as you now see it, your eyes are blinded by the elixir. They all chant alike, but this place is as bad as the streets.”
“You sound like a boy I once knew . . . ungrateful to the one who kept him.” She began to run on her quest, jumping from the steps and landing ankle-deep in the fresh London dirt. “I will tell Solomon what you have said upon my return and then we will see how grateful you can be to your master,” she shouted as she crossed the street towards the inn.
“Then I will pray that you never come back to this place,” the boy said under his breath as he went back into the Citadel and slowly pressed his slight body against the great doors, pushing them to close with all his might.
Tara hobbled through the dirt as Solomon’s words echoed again and again through her mind. Outside the inn a gang of drunken sailors ridiculed her as she passed. They chivvied at her purple coat and banded head, mocking her with catcalls and spits of phlegm. Like a London rat, she turned left and then right though the narrow streets, back and forth, keeping close to the walls, her eyes fixed to the ground. She counted her steps as her heart led her towards the Bull and Mouth and she thought of what she had to do. Into the inn, up the stairs into the room, clear the bed and find the box. Those had been Solomon’s words: Find my friend, find the box, bring the knife. A small chink in Tara’s memory allowed her a glimpse of the green alabaster. Such a fine thing, beautiful and mysterious and holding within it a sea of quicksilver. It was a memory that flickered on her face as warm as the fire that had burnt in the hearth that night. Yet in her mind she was alone in the room—no Jonah, no Maggot. Even Uncle Bunce was just a dark shape in the corner of her thought.
Whatever had taken place in her mind had cut from her many recollections of the past. All that was now left were dark ghostlike figures, faceless and black with no thought or character. Her wits stumbled, hoping to bring to mind a name, a place, a pleasant moment, but all she could see were dark spectres that floated across her mind’s eye and said nothing.
From the dark shadow of the portico that stood against the side of the fish market, a pair of red eyes stared at Tara as she crossed the empty road. They followed each step she took towards the Bull and Mouth. They were hunter’s eyes.
Tara shivered, feeling she was not alone but fearing to turn and see who or what spied upon her. She looked down and saw upon the cobbles drops of blood, deep and red, the blood from the dog she had shot, the dog that had attacked Maggot. In her mind the scene was danced again: Jonah, Maggot, the mist rising from the muddied street, all was there, and the flash as the pistol exploded, the ringing of the shot as it grazed the beast’s flesh and sent it spinning. All this was remembered in the moment of a quick glance at several drops of dried blood that clung to the stones.
Three steps to the inn door. Tara knew she had to turn just once and check the street behind. She fought with her own mind, not wanting to turn in case someone was there but knowing that this was what she had to do. The irresistible urge to see the one who stared at her from the darkness came upon her like a childhood game. Turn and look, said the voice in her head. Turn— look—run. She skipped warily across the cobbles to the steps of the inn.
The desire was too strong. As she took hold of the door handle to the inn, Tara turned and cast a glimpse from the corner of her eye to the dark portico.
XVIII
THE COURT OF THE NEW MOON
Jonah ran the last few paces through the dark yard off Cheapside to Malachi’s stables. He had stopped once to gather his breath, his eyes drawn to the top of St. Paul’s and the broken dome. In that moment he had thought of Tara. It was a dark thought, torn fro
m the depths of his soul, as if he were being told by a hidden voice that their friendship had been taken from them and handed to another. Then he had quickly snapped from his dream and set off at a pace.
In the stable yard he felt safe. There was no sound—no one was there, he could tell. It was a thief’s instinct. All he could think of was the knife and his promise to Malachi.
He found himself repeating the words of his promise: “Not good-bye—but till the morning. I will come back.” The words rolled from his lips and fell in the cold night air. It was as if they became real—each word had life, power and control of his soul. In his mind he saw Malachi being hauled from the roof by the militia and placed into the hanging cart as Mrs. Devereaux scalded the back of his neck with her hot tongue.
“Not me,” he said out loud to the star above him. “I am not made for things such as this . . . ,” Jonah begged, his eyes fixed to the heavens. “Find someone else to save him, I am just a poor boy and my story seldom told—don’t ask Jonah. My heart tells me one way and my desire another. Tell me to go to York and I will take you to Pimlico—that’s Jonah.”
Jonah clicked the door lock and entered the stable. He dropped to the floor, then crawled under the altar table. It was still there—the knife, stuck to its hilt in the soft plaster.
As he touched the handle, it sparked against his skin, hot to the touch and thankful for his company. Taking it in his grip, he twisted the blade back and forth. When he felt it to be free, he pulled it from the wall and quickly slipped the blade into his frock-coat pocket, nestling it against the old dried ring finger.
For several minutes Jonah sat in complete darkness. The building groaned as if it were breathing. High above his head he could hear the eaves creak. There was a cinder glow in the fire-grate, blown bright by the river breeze that was sucked down the chimney. He felt as if he was being told to leave, that this was the time to go quietly into the night. Jonah rolled from under the altar, got to his feet and began to search every jar he could find before him. He went quickly from the table to the shelves, fumbling his way around the room.
