Tersias the Oracle

by G. P. Taylor

“All I could think of was you,” she said as she leant towards Jonah, her eyes unable to rest upon his face. “We have to get the Alabaster and escape from here, they will be coming for us.” Her hands trembled as she spoke.

  Malachi felt uneasy. He sniffed the air, flicking his tongue like a snake. The room was alive with suits of armour and swords that reflected the candlelight.

  “Is it here? We need to take it from this place and keep it safe,” she said again as she got to her feet and stood by Jonah, her hand tightly squeezing his shoulder as her face burnt bright red from the glare of the fire. “Tell me, Jonah, tell me where it is and I will take it to somewhere safe and we will all go free—isn’t that what you want?”

  “I want Maggot to get better and I want to find Tersias. He has a right to his freedom and Malachi can take care of him. That’s all I want, Tara. Nothing more.” Jonah got up from the fire and looked at Tara. In her eyes there was a distant, faraway look. All he loved in Tara was gone. Gone the joy, gone the laughter, gone the fire from her heart. “Why your obsession with the Alabaster? You’ve done nothing but moan of it since I came here.”

  “Can’t you see? It was the Alabaster that has brought all this upon us. Before you stole it, we were all just fine.”

  “No. We were penniless and a star was about to crash into the world, that is what we were. You and I have done what we always do—help ourselves. And we need to do that again somehow. That Alabaster changes nothing. All that has changed in this place is you. It’s like Solomon has taken your wits and given you the brain of a donkey, braying his tune.”

  “Don’t leave her with a cold shoulder, Jonah,” Malachi said as he edged closer to the fire. “The girl has suffered much and she complains for good reason. This Alabaster is an important thing. I once heard of it many years ago. It is said to be overflowing with the finest mercury . . . the perfect mirror for seeing yourself. Perhaps the girl would like to see how she now looks?”

  “Very well,” Jonah said reluctantly as he stepped back towards a tall suit of medieval armour that hung against the wall next to the stone fireplace. “If she wants to see her empty face, she can. No thanks in being free.”

  He turned and lifted the shining breastplate from the wall hinge and took the Alabaster from its hiding place. He held it close to him, his fingers gripping the cold stone. Malachi edged closer, awed by being in the presence of an instrument of alchemy.

  “The key? I heard talk of a special, delicate key that unhinges the latch and allows you to see the mercury, is that correct?” he said, his voice quivering as he jumped from foot to foot with excitement that brought new life to his old bones.

  “Not a key, but a knife,” Jonah said quickly, pulling the dagger from his coat and slipping it into the golden rim for all to see.

  The Alabaster opened slowly and Jonah placed it gently on the table by the fire. Malachi gasped at its beauty as tiny sparks leapt in an incandescent rain into the room, cooling the air around them.

  Like the opening of a September rosebud, the Alabaster came to life. The glow of the quicksilver shone brighter than the fire-grate. Tara and Malachi were drawn together by its beauty as Jonah busied himself stoking the fire with a long brass poker and throwing on small lumps of damp coal. The Alabaster gave a ghostly shudder as it opened flat against the table. The mercury beckoned. From high above them a drop of the whitest candle wax slid silently down the arm of the chandelier and dripped effortlessly through the air before landing upon the quicksilver, sending a spurt of mercury high into the air. Then the Alabaster again lay quiet and still as a shimmering mirror.

  “This is a wonder,” Malachi said, as all eyes fixed upon it.

  Tara was drawn to look at herself. She stared into the looking-glass and then in the swirling deep silver she saw another creature staring back at her and smiling. She drew her breath, trying to steal her sight from its glare, but no matter where she looked, the creature managed to capture her. She could not escape its stare.

  Malachi looked into the quicksilver and saw himself. He knew nothing of what was taking place before Tara. All he could see was his fine beard, waxed eyebrows and the distinguished crow’s-feet that edged his eyes. Someone had once told him that he looked like a Scottish king, and as he mused on his appearance, he realised how right they had been.

  “It is such a clever thing,” Malachi said as he preened. “The more I stare, the more beautiful and younger I become. Look at me, Jonah—are not the years falling away from my face? Does not the alchemy of the box change my visage?”

  “If you mean are you getting younger—then no. And if you want to look younger, I would stick your head in a bucket of carriage grease.”

  Malachi laughed and threw back his head. “You are a cruel boy,” he said, pulling upon his shirtsleeves and twisting his beard in his fingers. “I have the greatest desire to drink chocolate with the King,” he said, thrilled by the sight of his beautification.

  Jonah didn’t reply. A sound of choking drew him quickly, and he turned to see Tara being sucked inch by inch into the quicksilver, as if the Alabaster were consuming her, pulling her from this world through the narrow portal of the stone box.

  “MALACHI!” Jonah grabbed Tara from behind as the box suckled itself upon her even faster, pulling her entire head within. “IT’S KILLING HER!”

  Malachi turned to see the girl being sucked deeper into the stone box, disappearing from sight. The sides of the Alabaster were moving like the jaws of a creature that had snapped its thick green mouth over the head of its victim. He took her by the waist and began to pull her back as Jonah pushed against the hinges of the box.

  “The lock! Put the knife in the box and make it close!” Malachi shouted as he twisted Tara away from the Alabaster. “Quick, or she will soon be gone.”

  Jonah tried to slip the blade of the knife into the box, but this time it would not accept it. “It’s no use!” Jonah screamed as the blade was repelled. “It will not give way.”

  “Try from the heart! It was created with hate, the linctus of the alchemist. Try from the heart,” Malachi said as he still pulled Tara towards him while the Alabaster consumed her neck and shoulders. Strands of mercury slid down her back and around her chest like long silver tendrils.

  Jonah closed his eyes and gripped the knife, trying to calm the beat of his heart, breathing the memories of their friendship and begging for her not to be lost.

  There was a sudden lurch as the handle of the knife burst in his grip and jumped into the lock.

  The Alabaster groaned and sputtered silver across the room as tendrils of mercury lashed out like arms of steel, knocking Malachi to the floor. Tara was spat across the parlour, the bandages that covered her shaved head slithering swiftly through the air and into the deep blackness of the closing case. With the sound of two cavernous rock gates being slammed by a giant’s hand, the Alabaster closed and then fell to the floor with a resounding thud that shook the inn.

  Tara spewed mercury from her nostrils as she gasped for breath, clawing at her face as if to rid herself of something or someone that grasped at her. “There is another world,” she shouted as Malachi got to his feet and took her by the hand. “I saw everything! It wanted me to go with it—to be there and never return.”

  “What did?” Jonah asked as his eyes flashed from Malachi to the girl and back again.

  “The creature in the box—I could see it clearly, it stared and stared and then I was tranced and it grabbed me by the throat and pulled me through the mercury. It is another world, unlike anything I have ever seen, beautiful . . .” Tara got to her feet and picked the last pieces of crisp mercury from her face, then rubbed her hand over her shaven head. She saw Jonah looking at her, his eyes following her thin fingers.

  “Did Solomon do this to you?” he asked.

  “It was part of the transformation, everyone has it done,” she replied without thinking of what she was saying.

  “You sound as if you enjoyed it, as if you were part of h
is family already.”

  “I escaped, didn’t I? Came back for you like I always do. I could have stayed. I was warm, well fed, and the company was tolerable, unlike . . .”

  “And the mark upon your temple, did you agree to that as well? I wouldn’t let a madman cut a cockroach in my head.” Jonah touched the side of her head and felt the ridges of a thick tattoo, crusted and bloodied above her right ear. “Did Solomon give you that?”

  Tara snapped his hand away, turning her face to one side to hide the mark from his view. She traced the ink-brand with her finger, following the shape of the creature that felt as if it was burrowing out from under her stubbled skin.

  “It isn’t a cockroach but a locust,” Malachi interrupted, stepping towards the girl. “I have seen this before. This is a creature that consumes all before it. The plague of many lands that devours everything. It is Solomon’s sign and a proclamation of his power.”

  Tara kept silent, knotting her hands together and hunching her shoulders. She tried to smile, but all the joy had been bled from her.

  “This place within the Alabaster, was it a reality or just a dream?” Malachi asked, breaking her trance.

  “It was as real as you standing there.” She looked anxiously to the Alabaster that lay untouched before the fire. “What time is it?”

  “Time for us to leave the city,” Jonah said as he got to his feet. “Our escape continues, and we will have more than Solomon looking for us. We have to get the oracle from the Citadel and leave for good.”

  “Tersias is dead,” Tara blurted out, speaking the lie without remorse as she edged herself towards the stone box.

  “DEAD?” Malachi asked. “How can he be dead? We are to help him escape. Why didn’t you say before? The boy is gone and all your concern has been about the Alabaster . . .”

  “I couldn’t tell you before, but you have to know. It was the transformation. He was weak—his heart. No one meant it to happen.”

  Malachi kicked the fire-grate. “So he was killed. . . . He was nothing but a child and he was killed. And all you say is no one meant it to happen.”

  “At least we didn’t keep him in a cage and make him perform like a circus monkey. His last hours were in the warmth and kindness of friends.” Tara edged closer to the Alabaster, her eyes fixed upon it like her heart’s desire. “The boy died quietly—it happens to us all, none of us will get out of this world alive.”

  “You talk of a life, how can you speak of him that way?” Jonah asked. “Out of all of us it was your heart that was burning with kindness for him.”

  “Both of you would have used him for your own gain,” she snapped, ignoring what Jonah had said as she edged even closer to the Alabaster. “Greed was what kept him in your concerns. Neither of you wanted to help him. You wanted the gold he would bring, and for his condition and well-being you cared nothing.”

  “That was before,” Malachi replied. “Much has happened to us both, and my mind has been turned by what I have faced. Twice I have stared into hell and twice I have been redeemed. I feel greatly forgiven and for that I am truly thankful.”

  “Then show it—mourn for him, weep for him, tear your clothes in grief, but don’t blame me for his death.”

  “Did Solomon cut out your heart when he shaved your head and dressed you in his fine gown?” Jonah said. “We should have let that creature suck you into the box and have done with you, Tara. What changes have been tattooed into your wits?”

  “That fate would have suited me finely. I didn’t ask to be saved. I came for you, remember?” she screamed at him.

  Jonah bent and picked the Alabaster from her feet and held it before her. “Take it, do what you will. Let it leech you dry.” Tara greedily snatched the Alabaster from him and held it to her chest. “You belong in another world, for in this one you need a heart of f lesh . . .”

  There came a crashing of timber from the bar of the inn and Old Bunce was violently bundled into the parlour, spinning head over heels. Malachi turned, hearing the clump of gigantic feet and the crashing of the tables. From out of the shadows stepped Campion, bowing his head to step into the parlour. He smiled at Tara, who for a moment stood her ground. Then, seeing Jonah look to her, she began to cower away.

  “Come to take you back,” Campion said as he stepped closer, his hand clutching a broken table leg. “You can’t be staying here all night—they could be for turning you back again.”

  Tara gripped the Alabaster even tighter as Campion raised the stave in front of Malachi.

  “You’re still alive?” he asked. “I thought you had the life beaten from your bones, and you are certainly no ghost.”

  “I heal well . . . ,” the magician said, stepping away from Campion. “Take the girl—we will not follow. She came to say good-bye and in her own way told us her life was with your company and not in ours.”

  “Leave no witnesses, I was told. Leave no one,” Campion said as he took hold of Tara and pulled her towards him, wrapping her gently under his folded arm. “What do you say, child?” he asked the girl. “Do I pay him back for my slashed palm and pierced leg?”

  Tara squeezed the Alabaster, a true smile returning to her lips. “I say that servants should do as they are told and make their masters happy . . .”

  “Very well, so mote it be.”

  Suddenly, Jonah dived towards the fireplace, taking hold of the handle of the knife that lay by the coals. It stuck to his palm like frosted glass, icy cold in his grip. He let out a shrill cry as Campion lashed down at him with the stave, cracking it against the stone mantel. Jonah twisted from the fire, knife in hand, and lashed out at the giant.

  Malachi seized his chance and picked the candlestick from the table and thrashed at Campion again and again. Holding Tara as a shield as he dragged her from the room, the giant thrust the stave back and forth, trying to deal a blow to the magician.

  Jonah took Bunce by the collar and pulled away from the fight. His head fell limply to one side, blood trickling from his ears. Then, clutching the dagger, Jonah sprang across the room, jumping from table to chair, and grabbed the chandelier. He swung towards Campion, kicking him in the chest and sending him scurrying backwards and out of the parlour door.

  Tara turned and ran with Campion, one hand gripping the Alabaster and the other clutching the giant’s paw as together they dashed from the inn and into the street.

  Malachi and Jonah gave futile chase. “She’s gone,” Malachi said as they stood by the portico. The baying of a hound echoed from Bloomsbury Square.

  “But not forgotten,” Jonah replied. He looked at the knife, shining with a ghostly glow in the darkness.

  XX

  THE SIGN OF TIRONIAN

  Wrapped in a thick blanket, Old Bunce lay deadly still upon the market cart. Its wheels, pulled by Jonah and Malachi, groaned in the silent night of the Tyburn road. Since the coming of the comet, most of the nighthawks and homeless had fled the parks and gathering places for fear that another star would come crashing through the sky and splatter upon the earth.

  As they pushed the innkeeper’s battered body through the rutted avenues and squares, Jonah could not help remembering the warm smile that Tara had so readily shared on the night that the plot to catch Tersias had been hatched. He could still taste the savory beef and cock of the forest that they had devoured together by candlelight. They had laughed and she had told tales in the way that only she could, her eyes glinting, her voice suspending disbelief. She had spoken of a king who had been blessed by the gods with the stroke of fortune and all that he touched was transformed to gold. Jonah had never heard such a tale. It was as if it were written for him. Tara had been about to speak of the ending when Maggot had screamed from the street—that was when the dog had attacked. She never finished her story and now perhaps she never would.

  On the cart, Old Bunce muttered under his breath. The blow from Campion had crushed the bones in his neck, cutting the life from his hands and feet. Since leaving the inn, he had moaned th
e same word again and again, calling for Tara, begging her to return. To Bunce she had been a niece, friend and business companion. Now she was all he wanted, and he cried out like a small child calling for its mother.

  “What do you think Griselda will do for him?” Jonah asked Malachi.

  “From the looks of him, I say all that will be done is slip him in the Thames and watch the tide take him away. There comes a time, Jonah my boy, when it is better to give the man to his maker than keep him here on earth.”

  “We have to do something, Tara would want—” Jonah stopped, his thoughts catching his lip and cutting him short.

  “Tara, lovely Tara—dining with Solomon, eating oysters by the yard . . . ,” Malachi sang mockingly, holding out his hands and dancing a jig as he looked up to the stars. “Her heart has turned; it was not your fault. She is gone. Now you have a duty to your old friend Mister Bunce. In his last hours you can do for him what is right and see your friend Maggot.”

  “I don’t want to die,” Jonah blurted out unexpectedly. “Yet sometimes I wish I’d never been born at all.”

  “The words of a queen, said before the chopper came down upon her soft white neck.” Malachi laughed to himself. “There is nothing we can do about it. We are here and the only way of escape is through an uncertain doorway. We are born, we live and we die—that is life.”

  “But we never know when our time will be,” Jonah insisted.

  “That is the fun of life. Our death waits for us, stalks us, hides behind the bed and lurks in dark places. It is a sprig of hemlock in a friend’s glass, a bolt of lightning upon a summer’s day, an old rogue waiting in the night, an angel, a devil . . . We never know, nor should we know, for if we did, then life would lose its purpose and we would give up our desires and our dreams.”

  They talked on as the wheels of the cart turned the yards to Strumbelo and the stars turned the earth towards the sun. Within the hour they had left the broken houses of Tyburn, crossed Hyde Park and taken the King’s Road. Light grew in the east as a hazy sun clawed at the horizon, hoping to pull back the mantle of darkness. A quick wind blew upon them, lifting the taste of the cool dewed grass. Streets gave way to open fields, thick hedges and bare orchards that stretched out towards the river.